STONE BUTCHPRAISE FOR Stone Butch Blues “Reading this book changed my life. The narrator of Stone Butch Blues both walks achingly alone and tells the sweet story of con- necting to a society in which agency becomes possible. Feinberg’s Jess witnesses the vast criminality of homophobia, the tenderness and the wildness of love, and the tiny, massive vitalities of friend- ship, work, and political community. Everyone needs to know Stone Butch Blues and pass it around, It’s history out loud.” —Eileen Myles, author of Cool for You “In a world of polarities, where all we’re taught is black and white, Stone Butch Blues added to what we know is really a rain- bow. How we choose to live in our bodies and our hearts is much more than a Dick-and-Jane reality. This book opened our eyes to a transgendered hue now recognized among our many colors.” —Jewelle Gomez, author of Don’t Explain “Stone Butch Blues is a unique take on the universal theme of self-love and identity...written with a compelling passion that has its very own sound.” —Emanuel Xavier, author of Americano and Christ-Like “Stone Butch Blues is a masterpiece of U.S. fiction and should be required reading in high school and college classes across the country. This novel takes its place not only within a long tradition of queer narratives of alienation and opposition, but, in form and content, it also hearkens back to radical proletarian U.S. literature from the 1930s. By weaving the story of Jess Goldberg, a work- ing-class gender warrior, through the narratives of 1960s and ’70s social movements, Feinberg insistently reminds us that our indi- vidual struggles are always part of a larger fabric of resistance. Stone Butch Blues will be read for years to come!” —Judith Halberstam, author of Female Masculinity “Stone Butch Blues is a must-read for butches, femmes, and those who care about them.” —Lesléa Newman, author of The Little Butch Book“Stone Butch Blues is the queer great American novel—it will be read, loved, studied, and denounced for a long, long time.” —Holly Hughes performance artist and author of Clit Notes: A Sapphic Sampler “Stone Butch Blues is wrenching, compelling, provocative. Feinberg examines the straitjacket of the gender binary and the price it exacts.” —Zsa Zsa Gershick, author of Gay Old Girls “In this revolutionary novel, Feinberg explodes the myth of the binary gender system and the feminist notion that butchness is apolitical. The scenes of early queer society are brought to viva- cious life—I laughed, I cried, and felt right at home.” —Chrystos, author of Fire Power and Fugitive Colors “Leslie Feinberg is one of the coolest hot people around, and Stone Butch Blues is both extraordinary and required reading if you want to know what being queer is really about in the U.S.” —Felice Picano, author of Onyx and The Book of Lies “Leslie Feinberg has written a poignant, multilayered story involving class, race, religion, politics, and gender that touches the hearts and souls of anyone that has lived outside the pur- ported norms imposed by mainstream society.” —Michael M. Hernandez, transgender writer/activist “Stone Butch Blues has probably touched your life even if you haven’t read it yet. It’s a movement classic, one of those books that spilled right out of its binding and into the world, changing the landscape irrevocably.” —Alison Bechdel, creator of “Dykes to Watch Out For” “Stone Butch Blues is a powerful novel written by a founder of the contemporary transgender movement. It is also an important historical text documenting the profound shift in how we all came to think about gender at the end of the last century.” —Susan Stryker, executive director, GLBT Historical SocietySTONE BUTCH BLUESSTONE BUTCH De. A NOVEL LESLIE FEINBERG Tos angelesALL CHARACTERS IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL INDIVIDUALS — EITHER LIVING OR DEAD—IS STRICTLY COINCIDENTAL. © 1993 BY LESLIE FEINBERG. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND AFTERWORD © 2003 By LESLIE FEINBERG. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THIS TRADE PAPERBACK IS PUBLISHED BY ALYSON BOOKs, P.O. Box 1253, OLD CHELSEA STATION, NEW YORK 10113-1251. FIRST PUBLISHED BY FIREBRAND BOOKS: 1993 First ALYSON BooKs EDITION: NOVEMBER 2003 o9 A 109 87 ISBN 1-55 583-853-7 ISBN-13 978-15 5583-853-9 (PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED WITH ISBN 1-56341-030-3 BY FIREBRAND BOOKS.) LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DaTA FEINBERG, LESLIE, 1949- STONE BUTCH BLUES : A NOVEL / LESLIE FEINBERG.— 1ST ALYSON BOoKs ED. 1. COMING OUT (SEXUAL ORIENTATION) —FICTION. 2. TRANSSEXUALS—FICTION, 3. LESBIANS—FICTION. I. TITLE. PS3556.E427576 2004 813'.54—DC22 2003062838 CREDITS COVER PHOTOGRAPHY BY MarILyN HumpHrigs. COVER DESIGN BY MatTT Sams.Dedicated to the memory of trans warrior Sylvia Rivera Long live the spirit of Stonewall!A Decade Later: Thanks To each reader who has taken the time and caring to con- vey to me the impact of Stone Butch Blues on your heart and mind and viewpoint, I extend my heartfelt gratitude. You have widened my world of human interaction. To the crew at Alyson Publications, and particularly editor in chief Angela Brown, thank you for the work each of you put into this beautiful new edition of Stone Butch Blues and for being a pleasure to work with. My appreciation goes out to my literary agent, Laurie Liss, and the staff at Sterling Lord Literistic for your labor and for your support. Much belated but very earnest thanks to dear friend Beverly Hiestand. Dissatisfied with my original manuscript at the eleventh hour when the novel was almost due at the pub- lisher’s, I tore up the ending and set out to create a new char- acter: Ruth. I traveled to Buffalo to cull from Bev memoriesabout the tiny rural community of Vine Valley where she was raised. We took a trip there to meet and talk with people whose lives are rooted in the vineyards. As a result, I was able to write Ruth, not as an idea birthed in the womb of creativ- ity, but from the immersion pool of memory, the dark and rich organic soil, the bouquet of concord grape, the basin lake that mirrors a changing sky, and the hardscrabble lives of Vine Valley. I also want to thank Beverly and Linda Shamrock—as friends and as hardworking registered nurses—from the bot- tom of my defibrillated heart. When I was in the grip of grave illness, abruptly left without a primary care doctor, you both created an emergency trans health network of care, patient advocacy, and partner support in Buffalo. Your tireless efforts helped me live to see this novel take on new life. An adult lifetime of thanks to teamster Milt Neidenberg— Duffy to my Jess. When I was a child in Buffalo, if I was lucky enough to find a penny, | made my way into the nearby woods, summer hot or winter cold, to place the precious cop- per coin on the train tracks. Moments later, the massive engine would hurtle past. I can’t recall ever finding the flat- tened penny after the train passed over it, flipping it into the dense weeds that grew up in and around the rails. The great thrill was that the engineer who drove this powerful locomo- tive along the tracks would blow the steam whistle for me, waving as he passed. Milt, you are that engineer for me. Thank you for taking me aboard for the ride of a lifetime. And to my beloved warrior Minnie Bruce Pratt: Thank you for teaching me that happiness is not overrated. We came into each other’s lives just as I was putting the last tinkering touches on this manuscript. The dirt from your garden is still smudged on my blues. Oh, my love, haven’t we written a chapter together since!CHAPTER ear Theresa, I'm lying on my bed tonight missing you, my eyes all swollen, hot tears running down my face. There’s a fierce summer lightning storm raging outside. Tonight I walked down streets looking for you in every woman's face, as I have each night of this lonely exile. I'm afraid I'll never see your laughing, teasing eyes again. Thad coffee in Greenwich Village earlier with a woman. A mutual JSriend fixed us up, sure we'd have a lot in common since we're both ‘‘into politics.” Well, we sat in a coffee shop and she talked about Democratic politics and seminars and photography and problems with her co-op and how she’s so opposed to rent control. Small wonder—Daddy is a real es- tate developer. I was looking at her while she was talking, thinking to myself that I'ma stranger in this woman's eyes. She’s looking at me but she doesn’t see me. Then she finally said how she hates this society for what it’s done to “‘women like me’’ who hate themselves so much they have to look and 5act like men. Lfelt myself getting flushed and my face twitched a little and I started telling her, all cool and calm, about how women like me existed since the dawn of time, before there was oppression, and how those ‘societies respected them, and she got her very interested expression on— and besides it was time to leave. So we walked by a corner where these cops were laying into a home- less man and I stopped and mouthed offto the cops and they started com- ing at me with their clubs raised and she tugged my belt to pull me back. Ljust looked at her, and suddenly I felt things well up in me I thought I had buried. I stood there remembering you like I didn’t see cops about to hit me, like I was falling back into another world, a place I wanted to go again. ‘And suddenly my heart hurt so bad ‘and I realized how long it’s been since my heart ‘felt—anything. Ineed to go home to you tonight Theresa. I can't, So I’m writing you this letter. Tremember years ago, the day I started working at the cannery in Buffalo and you had already been there a few months, and how your eyes caught mine and played with me before you set me free. I was supposed to be following the foreman to, fill out some forms but I was so busy won- dering what color your hair was under that white paper net and how it would look and feel in my fingers, down loose and free. And I remember how you laughed gently when the foreman came back and said, “You comin’ or not?”’ All of us he-shes were mad as hell when we heard you got fired be- cause you wouldn't let the Superintendent touch your breasts. I still un- loaded on the docks for another couple of days, but I was kind of mopey. It just wasn’t the same afier your light went out. Tcouldn’t believe it the night I went to that new club on the West Side. There you were, leaning up against the bar, your jeans too tight for words and your hair, your hair all loose and free. ‘And I remember that look in your eyes again. You didn’t just know me, you liked what you saw. And this time, ooh woman, we were on our own turf, I could move the way you wanted me too, and I was glad I'd gotten all dressed up. Our own turf... ‘Would you dance with me?”’ You didn’t say yes or no, just teased me with your eyes, straightened my tie, smoothed my collar, and took me by the hand. You had my heart before you moved against me like you did. Tammy was singing “Stand By Your Man,’ and we were changing all the he's to she's inside our heads to make it fit right. After you ‘moved that way, you had more than my heart.STONE BUTCH BLUES. 7 You made me ache and you liked that. So did I. The older butches warned me: if you wanted to keep your marriage, don't go to the bars. But I’ve always been a one-woman butch. Besides, this was our community, the only one we belonged to, so we went every weekend. There were two kinds of fights in the bars. Most weekends had one Kind or the other, some weekends both. There were the fist fights between the butch women—full of booze, shame, jealous insecurity. Sometimes the fights were awful and spread like a web to trap everyone in the bar, like the night Heddy lost her eye when she got hit upside the head with a bar stool. I was real proud that in all those years I never hit another butch woman. See, I loved them too, and I understood their pain and their shame because I was so much like them. I loved the lines etched in their faces and hands and the curves of their work-weary shoulders, Sometimes I looked in the mirror and wondered what I would look like when I was their age. Now I know! In their own way, they loved me too. They protected me because they knew I wasn't a ‘‘Saturday-night butch.”’ The weekend butches were scared of me because I was a stone he-she. If only they had known how powerless I really felt inside! But the older butches, they knew the whole road that lay ahead of me and they wished I didn't have to go down it be- cause it hurt so much. [ When I came into the bar in drag, kind of hunched over, they told me, ‘‘Be proud of what you are,’’ and then they adjusted my tie sort of like you did. Iwas like them, they knew I didn’t have a choice. So Inever fought them with my fists. We clapped each other on the back in the bars and watched each other’s backs at the factory. But then there were the times our real enemies came in the front door: drunken gangs of sailors, Klan-type thugs, sociopaths and cops. You al- ways knew when they walked in because someone thought to pull the plug on the jukebox. No matter how many times it happened, we all still went “Aw. ...” when the music stopped and then realized it was time to get down to business. When the bigots came in it was time to fight, and fight we did. Fought hard—femme and butch, women and men together. Ifthe music stopped and it was the cops at the door, someone plugged the music back in and we switched dance partners. Us in our suits and ties paired off with our drag queen sisters in their dresses and pumps. Hard to remember that it was illegal then for two women or two men to sway to music together. When the music ended, the butches bowed, ourfemme partners curtsied, and we returned to our seats, our lovers, and ‘our drinks to await our fates. That's when I remember your hand on my belt, up under my suit jacket, That's where your hand stayed the whole time the cops were there. “Take it easy, honey. Stay with me baby, cool off,”’ you'd be cooing in my ear like a special lover's song sung to warriors who need to pick and choose their battles in order to survive. We learned fast that the cops always pulled the police van right up to the bar door and left snarling dogs inside so we couldn't get out. We were trapped alright. Remember the night you stayed home with me when I was so sick? That was the night—you remember. The cops picked out the most stone butch of them all to destroy with humiliation, a woman everyone said “wore a raincoat in the shower.”’ We heard they stripped her, slow, in front of everyone in the bar, and laughed at her trying to cover up her naked- ness, Later she went mad, they said. Later she hung herself. What would I have done if I had been there that night? I'm remembering the busts in the bars in Canada. Packed in the po- lice vans, all the Saturday-night buiches giggled and tried to fluff up their hair and switch clothing so they could get thrown in the tank with the femme women—said it would be like ‘dyin’ and goin’ to heaven.”’ The law said we had to be wearing three pieces of ‘women’s clothing. We never switched clothing. Neither did our drag queen sisters. We knew, and so did you, what was coming. We needed our sleeves rolled up, our hair slicked back, in order to live through it. Our hands were cuffed tight behind our backs. Yours were cuffed in front. You loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar, and touched my face. I saw the pain and {fear for me in your face, and I whispered it would be alright. We knew it wouldn't be. Inever told you what they did 10 us down there—queens in one tank, stone butches in the next—but you knew. One at a time they would drag cour brothers out of the cells, slapping and punching them, locking the bars behind them fast in case we lost control and tried to stop them, as ifwe could. They'd handcuff a brother’s wrists to his ankles or chain him, ‘face against the bars. They ‘made us watch. Sometimes we'd catch the eyes of the terrorized victim, or the soon-to-be, caught in the vise of torture, and we'd say gently, “I'm with you honey, look at me, it's OK, we'll take you home.” We never cried in front of the cops. We knew we were next. The next time the cell door opens it will be me they drag out and chain spread-eagle to the bars.STONE BUTCH BLUES 9 Did I survive? I guess I did. But only because I knew I might get home to you. They let us out last, one ata time, on Monday morning. No charges. Too late to call in sick 10 work, no money, hitch-hiking, crossing the border on foot, rumpled clothes, bloody, needing a shower, hurt, scared. Tknew you'd be home if I could get there, You ran a bath for me with sweet-smelling bubbles. You laid out a Jresh pair of white BVD’s and a T-shirt for me and left me alone to wash off the first layer of shame. I remember, it was always the same. I would put on the briefs, and then I'd just get the T-shirt over my head and you would find some rea- son to come into the bathroom, to get something or put something away. Ina glance you would memorize the wounds on my body like a road map—the gashes, bruises, cigarette burns. Later, in bed, you held me gently, caressing me everywhere, the ten- derest touches reserved for the places I was hurt, knowing each and ev- ery sore place—inside and out. You didn’t flirt with me right away, know- ing I wasn’t confident enough to feel sexy. But slowly you coaxed my pride back out again by showing me how much you wanted me. You knew it would take you weeks again to melt the stone. Lately I've read these stories by women who are so angry with stone lovers, even mocking their passion when they finally give way to trust, to being touched. And I'm wondering: did it hurt you the times I couldn't let you touch me? I hope it didn’t. You never showed it if it did. I think you knew it wasn’t you I was keeping myself safe from. You treated my stone self as a wound that needed loving healing. Thank you. No one’s ever done that since. If you were here tonight. . .well, it’s hypothetical, isn’t it? I never said these things to you. Tonight [remember the time I got busted alone, on strange turf, You're probably wincing already, but I have to say this to you. It was the night we drove ninety miles to a bar to meet friends who never showed up. When the police raided the club we were “‘alone,’’ and the cop with gold bars on his uniform came right over to me and told me to stand up. No won- der, I was the only he-she in the place that night. He put his hands all over me, pulled up the band of my Jockeys and told his men to cuff me—I didn't have three pieces of women’s clothing on. I wanted to fight right then and there because I knew the chance would be lost ina moment. But I also knew that everyone would be beaten that night if I fought back, so I just stood there. I saw they had pinned your arms behind your back and cuffed your hands, One cop had his armacross your throat. I remember the look in your eyes. It hurts me even now. They cuffed my hands so tight behind my back I almost cried out. Then the cop unzipped his pants real slow, with a smirk on his face, and ordered me down on my knees. First I thought to myself, I can't! Then I said out loud to myself and to you and to him, “I won't!”’ Inever told you this before, but something changed inside of me at that moment. Tlearned the difference between what I can't do and what I refuse to do. I paid the price for that lesson. Do I have to tell you every detail? Of course not. : When I got out of the tank the next morning you were there. You bailed me out. No charges, they just kept your money. You had waited all night long in that police station. Only I know how hard it was for you to with- stand their leers, their taunts, their threats. I knew you cringed with ev- ery sound you strained to hear from back in the cells. You prayed you wouldn’t hear me scream. I didn’t. I remember when we got outside to the parking lot you stopped and put your hands lightly on my shoulders and avoided my eyes. You gently rubbed the bloody places on my shirt and said, ‘‘I'll never get these stains out,”” Damn anyone who thinks that means you were relegated in life to worrying about my ring-around-the-collar. Tknew exactly what you meant. It was such an oddly sweet way of saying, or not saying, what you were feeling. Sort of the way I shut down emotionally when I feel scared and hurt and helpless and say funny lit- tle things that seem so out of context. You drove us home with my head in your lap all the way, stroking my face. You ran the bath. Set out my fresh underwear. Put me to bed. Caressed me carefully. Held me gently. Later that night I woke up and found myself alone in bed. You were drinking at the kitchen table, head in your hands. You were crying. I took you firmly in my arms and held you, and you struggled and hit my chest with your fists because the enemy wasn't there to fight. Moments later ‘you recalled the bruises on my chest and cried even harder, sobbing, ‘‘It’s my fault, I couldn't stop them.” I’ve always wanted to tell you this, In that one moment I knew you really did understand how [felt in life. Choking on anger, feeling so power- less, unable to protect myself or those I loved most, yet fighting back again and again, unwilling to give up. I didn’t have the words to tell you this then, [just said, ‘‘It’ll be OK, it'll be alright.”” And then we smiled iron- ically at what I'd said, and I took you back to our bed and made the best love to you I could, considering the shape I was in. You knew not to trySTONE BUTCH BLUES 11 to touch me that night. You just ran your fingers through my hair and cried and cried. When did we get separated in life, sweet warrior woman? We thought we'd won the war of liberation when we embraced the word gay. Then suddenly there were professors and doctors and lawyers coming out of the woodwork telling us that meetings should be run with Robert's Rules of Order. (Who died and left Robert god?) They drove us out, made us feel ashamed of how we looked. They said we were male chauvinist pigs, the enemy. It was women’s hearts they broke. We were not hard to send away, we went quietly. The plants closed. Something we never could have imagined. That's when I began passing as a man. Strange to be exiled from your own sex to borders that will never be home. You were banished too, to another land with your own sex, and yet forcibly apart from the women you loved as much as you tried to love yourself. For more than twenty years I have lived on this lonely shore, won- dering what became of you. Did you wash off your Saturday night makeup in shame? Did you burn in anger when women said, ‘‘If | wanted a man Td be with a real one?” Are you turning tricks today? Are you waiting tables or learning Word Perfect 5.1? Are you ina lesbian bar looking out of the corner of your eye for the butchest woman in the room? Do the women there talk about Democratic Politics and seminars and co-ops? Are you with women who only bleed monthly on their cycles? Or are you married in another blue-collar town, lying with an un- employed auto worker who is much more like me than they are, listening Jor the even breathing of your sleeping children? Do you bind his emo- tional wounds the way you tried to heal mine? Do you ever think of me in the cool night? I’ve been writing this letter to you for hours. My ribs hurt bad from a recent beating. You know. Inever could have survived this long if I'd never known your love. Yet still ache with missing you and need you so. Only you could melt this stone. Are you ever coming back? The storm has passed now. There is a pink glow of light on the hori- zon outside my window. Iam remembering the nights I fucked you deep and slow until the sky was just this color. Ican’t think about you anymore, the pain is swallowing me up. [have to put your memory away, like a precious sepia photograph. There arestill so many things I want to tell you, t0 share with you. Since I can’t mail you this letter, I'll send it to a place where they keep women's memories safe. Maybe someday, passing through this big city, you will stop and read it. Maybe you won't. Good night, my love.CHAPTER didn’t want to be different. I longed to be everything grownups wanted, so they would love me. I followed all their rules, tried my best to please. But there was something about me that made them knit their eyebrows and frown. No one ever offered a name for what was wrong with me. That's what made me afraid it was really bad. I only came to recognize its melody through this constant refrain: “Js that a boy or a girl?” Iwas one more bad card life had dealt my parents. They were already bitterly dis- appointed people. My father had grown up determined he wasn't going to be stuck in a factory like his old man; my mother had no intention of being trapped in a marriage. When they met, they dreamed they were going on an exciting adventure together. When they awoke, my father was working in a factory and my mother had become a housewife. When my mother discovered she was pregnant with me, she told my dad she didn’t want to be tied down with a kid. My father insisted she'd be happy once she had the baby. Nature would see to that. My mother had me to prove him wrong. My parents were enraged that life had cheated them. They were furious that mar- riage blocked their last opportunity to escape. Then I came along and I was different. B4 Now they were furious with me. I could hear it in the way they retold the story of my birth. Rain and wind had lashed the desert while my mother was in labor. That’s why she gave birth to me at home. The storm was too violent to be forded. My father was at work, and we had no phone. My mother said she wept so loudly in fear when she realized I was on the way that the Dineh grandmother from across the hall knocked on the door to see what was wrong, and then, realizing my birth was imminent, brought three more women to help. The Dineh women sang as I was born. That's what my mother told me. They washed me, fanned smoke across my tiny body, and offered me to my mother. “Put the baby over there,” she told them, pointing to a bassinet near the sink. Put the baby over there. The words chilled the Indian women. My mother could see that. The story was retold many times as I was growing up, as though the frost that bearded those words could be melted by repeating them in a humorous, ironic way. Days after I was born the grandmother knocked on our door again, this time be- cause my cries alarmed her. She found me in the bassinet, unwashed. My mother ad- mitted she was afraid to touch me, except to pin on a diaper or stick a bottle in my mouth. The next day the grandmother sent over her daughter, who agreed to keep me during the day while her children were at school, if that was alright. It was and it wasn’t. My mother was relieved, I’m sure, although at the same time it was an indictment of her. But she let me go. ‘And so I grew in two worlds, immersed in the music of two languages. One world was Wheaties and Milton Berle. The other was fry bread and sage. One was cold, but it was mine; the other was warm, but it wasn't. My parents finally stopped letting me travel across the hall when I was four. They came to pick me up before dinner one night. A number of the women had cooked a big meal and brought all the children together for the feast. They asked my parents if I could stay. My father grew alarmed when he heard one of the women say something to me in a language he didn’t understand, and I answered her with words he'd never heard before. He said later he couldn't stand by and watch his own flesh and blood be kidnapped by Indians. : I’ve only heard bits and pieces about that evening, so I don’t know everything that went on, I wish I did. But this part I’ve heard over and over again: one of the women told my parents I was going to walk a difficult path in life. The exact wording changed in the retelling. Sometimes my mother would pretend to bea fortuneteller, close her eyes, cover her forehead with her fingertips, and say, “I see a difficult life for this child.” Other times my father would bellow like the Wizard of Oz, “This child will walk a hard toad!” In any case, my parents yanked me out of there. Before they left, though, the grand- mother gave my mother a ring and said it would help to protect me in life. The ring frightened my parents, but they figured all that turquoise and silver must be worth some-STONE BUTCH BLUES 15 thing, so they took it. That night there was another terrible desert storm, my parents told me, terrifying in its power. The thunder crashed and the lightning illuminated everything. “Jess Goldberg?” the teacher asked. “Present,” I answered. The teacher narrowed her eyes at me. “What kind of name is that? Is it short for Jessica?” I shook my head. “No, ma’am.” “Jess,” she repeated. “That's nota girl’s name.” I dropped my head. Kids around me covered their mouths with their hands to stifle their giggles. Miss Sanders glared at them until they fell silent. “Is that a Jewish name?” she asked. I nodded, hoping that she was finished. She was not. “Class, Jess is from the Jewish persuasion. Jess, tell the class where you're from.” I squirmed in my seat. “The desert.” “What? Speak up, Jess.” “T’m from the desert.” I could see the kids mugging and rolling their eyes at each other. “What desert? What state?” She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. I froze with fear. I didn’t know. “The desert,” I shrugged. Miss Sanders grew visibly impatient. “What made your family decide to come to Buffalo?” How should I know? Did she think parents told six-year-old kids why they made huge decisions that would impact on their lives? “We drove,” I said. Miss Sanders shook her head. I hadn't made a very good first impression. Sirens screamed. It was the Wednesday morning air raid drill. We crouched down. under our desks and covered our heads with our arms. We were warned to treat The Bomb like strangers: don’t make eye contact. If you can’t see The Bomb, it can’t see you. There was no bomb—this was only practice for the real thing. But I was saved by the siren. I was sorry we'd moved from the warmth of the desert to this cold, cold city. Nothing could have prepared me for getting out of bed on a winter morning in an unheated apart- ment in Buffalo. Even warming our clothes in the oven before we put them on didn’t help much. After all, we still had to take our pajamas off first. Outside the cold was so fierce that the wind carved up my nose and sliced into my brain. Tears froze in my eyes. My sister Rachel was still a toddler. I just remember a round snowsuit swaddled. with scarves and mittens and hat. No kid, just clothes. Even when I was bundled up in the dead of winter, with only a couple of inches of my face peeking out from my snowsuit hood and scarf, adults would stop me and6 ask, “Are you a boy or a girl?” I'd drop my eyes in shame, never questioning their right to ask. During the summer there wasn't much to do in the projects, but there was plenty of time to do it. The projects, former Army barracks, now housed the military-contracted aircraft workers and their families, All our fathers went to work in the same plant; all our mothers stayed home. Old Man Martin was retired. He sat in a lawn chair on his porch listening to the McCarthy hearings on his radio. It was turned up so loud you could hear it all the way down the block. “Gotta watch out,” he'd tell me as I passed his house, “communists could be anywhere. Anywhere.” I'd nod solemnly and run off to play. But Old Man Martin and I shared something in common. The radio was my best friend, too. “The Jack Benny Show” and “Fibber McGee and Molly” made me laugh, even when I didn’t know what was so funny. “The Shadow” and “The Whistler” chilled me. Perhaps outside these projects working families already had televisions, but not us, The streets of the project weren't even paved—just gravel and giant Lincoln Logs to mark the parking. Very few new things came down our road. Ponies pulled the carts of the ice man and the knife sharpener. On Saturday they brought the ponies without the carts and sold rides for a penny. A penny also bought a chunk from the ice man— chipped off with his ice pick. The ice was dense and slick and sparkled like a cold dia- mond that might never melt. 7 When a television set first appeared in the projects, it was in the living room of the McKensies. All the children in the neighborhood begged our parents to let us go watch “Captain Midnight” on the McKensies’ new television. But most of us were not allowed in their home. Although it was 1955, the neighborhood still had some invisi- ble war zones from a fierce strike that had been settled in 1949, the year I was born. “Mac” McKensie had been a scab. Just the word itself was enough to make me shy away from their house. You could still see traces of that word on the front of their coal bin, even though it had been painted over in a slightly different shade of green. Years later, fathers still argued about the strike over kitchen tables and backyard barbecue grills. I overheard descriptions of such bloody strike battles, I thought WWI had been fought at the plant. At night when we'd drive my father to his shift, I used to crouch down on the back seat of the car and peek past the plant gates out over the now quiet fields of combat. ‘There were also gangs in the project, and the kids whose parents had scabbed during the strike made up a small but feared pack. “Hey pansy! Are you a boy ora girl?” There was no way to avoid them in the small planet of the projects. Their sing-song taunts stayed with me long after I'd passed by. ‘The world judged me harshly and so I moved, or was pushed, toward solitude. The highway sliced between our projects and a huge field. It was against the rules‘STONE BUTCH BLUES 17 to cross that road. There wasn't much traffic on it. You'd have to stand in the middle of a lane for a long time in order to get hit. But I wasn’t Supposed to cross that road. Tdid though, and no one seemed to notice. I parted the long brown grass that bordered the road. Once I passed through it I was in my own world. On the way to the pond I stopped to visit the puppies and dogs in the outside ken- nels connected to the back of the ASPCA building. The dogs barked and stood on their hind legs as I approached the fence. “Shhh!” I warned them. I knew no one was sup- posed to be back here. A spaniel pushed his nose through the chain-link fence. I rubbed his head. I looked around for the terrier I loved. He had only come to the fence once to greet me, sniffing cautiously. Usually, no matter how I coaxed, he'd lay with his head on his paws, look- ing at me with mournful eyes. I wished I could take him home. I hoped he went toa kid who loved him. “Are you a boy or a girl?” I asked the mongrel. “Ruff, ruff!” I didn’t see the ASPCA man until it was too late. “Hey, kid. What you doing there?” Caught. “Nothing,” I said. “I wasn’t doing anything bad. I was just talking to the dogs.” He smiled a little. “Don’t put your fingers inside the fence, son. Some of ’em bite.” Tfelt the tips of my ears grow hot. I nodded. “I was looking for that little one with the black ears. Did a nice family take him?” The man frowned for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly. “He's real happy now.” Thurried out to the pond to catch polywogs in a jar. I leaned on my elbow and looked up close at the little frogs that climbed up on the sun-baked rocks, “Caw, caw!” A huge black crow circled above me in the air and landed ona tock nearby. We looked at each other in silence. “Crow, are you a boy or a girl?” “Caw, caw!” Tlaughed and rolled over on my back. The sky was crayon blue. I pretended I was lying on the white cotton clouds. The earth was damp against my back. The sun was hot, the breeze was cool. I felt happy. Nature held me close and seemed to find no fault with me. On my way back from the fields I passed the Scabbie gang. They had found an unlocked truck parked on an incline. One of the older boys disengaged the emergency brake and made two of the younger boys from my side of the projects run under the truck as it rolled. “Jessy, Jessy!” they taunted as they rushed toward me. “Brian says you're a girl, but I think you're a sissy boy,” one of them said. I didn’t speak.“Well, what are you?” he mocked me. I flapped my arms, “Caw, caw!” I laughed. One of the boys knocked the jar filled with polywogs from my hand and it smashed on the gravel. I kicked and bit them but they held me and tied my hands behind my back with a piece of clothesline. “Let's see how you tinkle,” one of the boys said as he knocked me down and two of the others struggled to pull off my pants and my underpants. I was filled with hor- ror. I couldn't make them stop. The shame of being half-naked before them—the im- portant half—took all the steam out of me. They pushed and carried me to old Mrs. Jefferson's house and locked me in the coal bin. It was dark in the bin. The coal was sharp and cut like knives. It hurt too much to lie still, but the more I moved the worse I made the wounds. I was afraid I'd never et out. : It took hours before I heard Mrs. Jefferson in the kitchen. I don’t know what she thought when she heard all the thumping and kicking in her coal bin. But when she opened the little trap door on the coal bin and I squirmed out onto her kitchen floor, she looked scared enough to fall down dead. There I stood, covered with coal soot and blood, tied up and half-naked in her kitchen. She mumbled curses under her breath as she untied me and sent me home wrapped in a towel. I had to walk a block and knock ‘on my parents’ door before I found refuge. They were really angry when they saw me, I never understood why. My father spanked me over and over again until my mother restrained his arm with a whisper and her hand. A week later I caught up with one of the boys from the Scabbie gang. He made the mistake of wandering alone too near our house. I made a muscle and told him to feel it. Then I punched him in the nose. He ran away crying; I felt great, for the first time in days. My mother called me into our house for dinner. “Who was that boy you were play- ing with?” I shrugged. “You were showing him your muscle?” I froze, wondering how much she had seen. She smiled. “Sometimes it’s better to let boys think they’re stronger,” she told me. I figured she was just plain crazy if she really believed that. The phone rang. “I'll get it,” my father called out. It was the parent of the kid whose nose I bloodied; I could tell by the way my father glowered at me as he listened. “J was so ashamed,” my mother told my father. He glared at me in the rearview mir- ror. All I could see were his thick black eyebrows. My mother had been informed that I could no longer attend temple unless I wore a dress, something | fought tooth and nail. Atthe moment I was wearing a Roy Rogers outfit—without my guns. It was hard enough being the only Jewish family in the projects without being in trouble at the temple. WeSTONE BUTCH BLUES 19 had to drive a long time to go to the nearest synagogue. My father prayed downstairs. My mother and sister and I had to watch from the balcony, like at the movies. It seemed like there weren't many Jews in the world. There were some on the ra- dio, but none in my school. Jews weren't allowed on the playground. That’s what the older kids told me, and they enforced it. We were nearing home. My mother shook her head. “Why can’t she be like Rachel?” Rachel looked at me sheepishly. I shrugged. Rachel's dream was a felt skirt with an appliqué poodle and rhinestone-studded plastic shoes. My father pulled our car to a stop in front of our house. “You go straight to your room, young lady. And stay there.” I was bad. I was going to be punished. My head ached with fear. I wished I could find a way to be good. Shame suffocated me. It was almost sundown. I heard my parents call Rachel to join them in their bed- toom to light the Shabbas candles. I knew the shades were drawn. A month before, we'd heard laughter and shouting outside the living room windows while my father was lighting the candles. We raced to the windows and peered out into the dusk. Two teenagers pulled down their pants and mooned us. “Kikes!” they shouted. My father didn’t chase them away; he closed the drapes. After that, we started praying in their bedroom with the shades pulled down. Everyone in my family knew about shame. Soon afterward my Roy Rogers outfit disappeared from the dirty clothes hamper. My father bought me an Annie Oakley outfit instead. “No!” I shouted, “I don’t want to. I don’t want to wear it. I'll feel stupid!” My father yanked me by the arm. “Young lady, I spent $4.90 for this Annie Oak- ley outfit and you're going to wear it.” Itried to shake off his hand, but it was clamped painfully on my upper arm. Tears dripped down my cheeks. “I want a Davy Crockett hat.” My father tightened his grip. “I said no.” “But why?” I cried. “Everybody has one except me. Why not?” His answer was inexplicable. “Because you're a girl.” “T'm sick of people asking me if she’s a boy or a girl,” I overheard my mother com- plain to my father. “Everywhere I take her, people ask me.” Iwas ten years old. I was no longer a little kid and I didn’t have a sliver of cute- ness to hide behind. The world’s patience with me was fraying, and it panicked me. When I was really small I thought I'd do anything to change whatever was wrong _. with me. Now I didn’t want to change, I just wanted people to stop being mad at me all the time. One day my parents took my sister and me shopping downtown. As we drove down Allen Street I noticed a grownup whose sex I couldn’t figure out. “Mom, is that a he-she?” I asked out loud.20 My parents exchanged amused glances and burst out laughing. My father stared at me in the rearview mirror. “Where did you hear that word?” I shrugged, not sure I'd ever really heard the word before ithad escaped from my mouth. “What's a he-she?” my sister demanded to know. I was interested in the answer too. “Irs a weirdo,” my father laughed. “Like a beatnik.” Rachel and I nodded without understanding. Suddenly a wave of foreboding swept over me. Lfelt nauseous and dizzy. But what- ever it was that triggered the fear, it was too scary to think about. The feeling ebbed as quickly as it had swelled. I gently pushed open the door to my parents’ bedroom and looked around. I knew they were both at work, but entering their bedroom was forbidden. So I peeked around the room first, just to make sure. [went directly to my father’s closet door. His blue suit was there. That meant he must be wearing the grey one today. A blue suit and a grey suit—that’s all any man needed, my father always said. His ties hung neatly on a rack. Tttook even more nerve to open my father's dresser drawer. His white shirts were folded and starched stiff as a board. Each one was wrapped around with tissue paper and banded like a gift. The moment I tore off the paper band, I knew I was in trouble. Thad no hiding places for garbage that my mother wouldn't find right away. And I realized my father probably knew the precise number of shirts he owned. Even though all of them were white, he probably could tell exactly which one was missing. But it was too late. Too late. I stripped down to my cotton panties and T-shirt and slid on his shirt. It was so starched my eleven-year-old fingers could hardly get the collar buttoned. I pulled down a tie from the rack, For years [had watched my father deftly twist and flop his ties in a complicated series of moves, but I couldn't figure out the puzzle. I tied it ina clumsy knot. I climbed up on a footstool to lift the suit from the hangar. Its weight surprised me. It fell in a heap. I put on the suit coat and looked in the mirror. A sound came from my throat, sort of a gasp. I liked the little girl looking back at me. - Something was still missing: the ring. Topened my mother’s jewelry box. ‘The ring was huge. The silver and turquoise formed a dancing figure. I couldn't tell if the fig- ure was a woman or a man. The ring no longer fit across three of my fingers; now it fit snugly on two. . J stared in the big mirror over my mother’s dresser, trying to see far in the future when the clothing would fit, to catch a glimpse of the woman 1 would become. [didn't look like any of the girls or women Td seen in the Sears catalog. The cata- Jog arrived as the seasons changed. I'd be the first in the house to go through it, page by page. All the girls and women looked pretty much the same, so did all the boys and men. I couldn't find myself among the girls. I had never seen any adult woman whoSTONE BUTCH BLUES 21 looked like I thought I would when I grew up. There were no women on television like the small woman reflected in this mirror, none on the streets. I knew. I was always searching. For a moment in that mirror I saw the woman I was growing up to be staring back at me. She looked scared and sad. I wondered if I was brave enough to grow up and be her. Tnever heard the bedroom door open. By the time I saw my parents it was already too late. Each of them thought they were supposed to pick up my sister at the orthodon- tist. So they all got home unexpectedly early. My parents’ expressions froze. I was so frightened my face felt numb. Storm clouds were gathering on my horizon. My parents didn’t talk about finding me in their bedroom in my father’s clothes. I prayed I was off the hook. But one day shortly afterward, my mother and father unexpectedly took me for aride. They said they were bringing me to the hospital for a blood test. We rode up in an elevator to the floor where the test was supposed to be done. Two huge men in white uniforms took me off the elevator. My parents stayed on. Then the men turned and locked the gate, barring the elevator. I reached for my parents, but they wouldn’t even look at me as the elevator door closed. Terror sat on my chest like an elephant. I could hardly breathe. A nurse explained the rules of my stay: I must get up in the morning and stay out onthe ward all day. I must wear a dress, sit with my knees crossed, be polite, and smile when I was spoken to. I nodded as though I understood. I was still in shock. Iwas the only kid on the ward. They put me in a room with two women. One was avery old woman who they kept tied to the bed. She keened and called out names of people who weren't there. The other woman was younger. “I’m Paula,” she said, ex- tending her hand. “Nice to meetcha.” Her wrists were bandaged. She explained to me that her parents forbid her to ever see her boyfriend again because he was Negro. She slit her wrists in grief, and so they put her in this place. ‘We played ping-pong together for the rest of the day. Paula taught me the words to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” She laughed and applauded as I dropped my voice low like Elvis’. “Make trivets and moccasins,” Paula advised me. “Make lots of ’em. The more the better. They like that.” I didn’t know what a trivet was. ‘That night I had trouble sleeping. I heard men whispering and laughing as they came into my room. I wrapped the sheets tightly around my body and lay very still in silence. I heard the sound of a zipper opening. The smell of urine filled my nostrils. More laughter, and then the sounds of footsteps getting further and further away. My sheets were soaked. I was afraid I might be blamed and punished. Who had done this to me, and why? I'd ask Paula in the morning. Nurses and orderlies came into our room when the light was still gray behind then barred windows. “Rise and shine,” they shouted. The old woman began calling out names. Paula fought the orderlies, bit their hands. They cursed her, strapped her down, and wheeled her out of the room. One nurse approached my bed. I could still smell the faint scent of urine on the sheets even after they'd dried. Would she take me away if she smelled it too? She stud- ied her clipboard. “Goldberg, Jess.” It frightened me to hear her say my name, “Tdon't have a signature on this one,” she told the orderlies. They all left the room. “Goldberg, Jess,” the old woman shouted over and over again. ‘After lunch I snuck back into my room to get my yo-yo. Paula was sitting on her bed, staring at her slippers. She looked at me and cocked her head. She extended her hand to me. “I’m Paula,” she said. “Nice to meetcha.” ‘Anurse came into the room. “You,” she said, pointing at me. I followed her back to the nurse’s station. She held out two paper cups. ‘Beautiful colored pills rolled around in one, the other was filled with water. I stared at both cups. “Take them,” the nurse ordered. “Don’t give me a hard time.” I already sensed that giving the staff a hard time might mean never getting out of there, so I took the pills. Soon after I swallowed them the floor began to tilt as I walked. They made me feel like I was moving through glue. Every day I turned out more trivets and moccasins. I began to care about a woman who talked to ghosts I couldn't see. ‘And I discovered Norton's anthology of poetry in the patients’ library—it changed my life. I read the poems over and over again before I began to grasp their meanings. It wasn’t just that the words were musical notes my eyes could sing. It was the discov- ery that women and men, long dead, had left me messages about their feelings, emo- tions I could compare to my own. I had finally found others who were as lonely as I was. In an odd way, that knowledge comforted me. Three weeks after I'd been brought to this ward, a nurse took me to an office. A man with a beard sat behind a big desk smoking his pipe. He told me he was my doc- tor. He said I seemed to be making progress, that being young was difficult, that 1 was going through an awkward stage. “Do you know why you're here?” he asked me. Thad learned a lot in three weeks. I realized that the world could do more than just judge me, it wielded tremendous power over me. I didn't care anymore if my par- ents didn’t love me. I had accepted that fact in the three weeks I'd survived alone in this hospital. But now I didn't care. T hated them. And I didn't trust them. I didn’t trust anyone. My mind was focused on escape. I wanted to get out of this place and run away from home. [told the doctor I was afraid of the grownup male patients on the ward. I said I was sure my parents were disappointed in me, but T wanted to make them happy and proud of me. I told him I didn’t know what I was doing wrong, but if I could just goSTONE BUTCH BLUES 23 home, I'd do whatever he thought I should. I didn’t mean it, but I said it. He nodded, but he seemed more interested in keeping his pipe lit than in me. ‘Two days later, my parents appeared on the ward and took me home. We didn’t speak about what had happened. I concentrated on running away, waiting for the right moment. I had to agree to see the shrink once a week. I hoped I wouldn't have to see him for long, but the appointments continued for several years. I remember the exact day the shrink dropped the bombshell: he and my parents had agreed charm school would help me a Jot. The date is etched in my mind. November 23, 1963. I walked out of his office in a daze. The humiliation of charm school seemed more than I could bear. I might have killed myself if I could have figured out a pain- less route. Everyone else seemed to be walking around equally as stunned. When I got home my parents had the television turned up loud and an announcer reported that the presi- dent had been shot in Dallas. It was the first time I'd ever seen my father cry. The whole world was out of control. I closed my bedroom door and fell asleep in order to escape. Ididn’t think I could survive the spotlight of charm school illuminating my shameful differences. But somehow I got through it. My face burned with humiliation and an- ger each time I had to pivot on the runway in front of the whole class, over and over again. Charm school finally taught me once and for all that I wasn’t pretty, wasn’t femi- nine, and would never be graceful. The motto of the school was Every girl who enters leaves a lady. I was the exception. Just when it seemed like it couldn't get worse I noticed my breasts were growing. Men- struation didn’t bother me. Unless I bled all over myself it was a private thing between me and my body. But breasts! Boys hung out of car windows and yelled vulgar things at me. Mr. Singer at the pharmacy stared at my breasts as he rang up my candy pur- chases. I quit the volleyball and track teams because I hated how my breasts hurt when Tjumped or ran. I liked how my body was before puberty. Somehow I thought it would never change, not like this! ‘Whatever the world thought was wrong with me, I finally began to agree they were right. Guilt burned like vomit in my throat. The only time it receded is when I went back to The Land Where They Don’t Mind. That’s how I remembered the desert. A Dineh woman came to me one night in a dream. She used to come to me al- most every night, but not since I had been in the psychiatric ward several years earlier. She held me on her lap and told me to find my ancestors and be proud of who I was. She told me to remember the ring. When I woke up it was still dark outside. I curled up on the foot of my bed and listened to the rain storm outside my window. Lightning bolts lit up the night sky. I waited until my parents got dressed before J snuck in their bedroom and took the ring. Dur- ing the day at school I hid in a bathroom stall and looked at it, wondering about its power.24 ‘When would it protect me? I figured it was like the Captain Midnight Decoder Ring—you had to figure out how it worked. ‘That night at dinner my mother laughed at me. “You were talking Martian in your sleep again last night when we went {0 bed.” I slammed my fork down. “It's not Martian.” “Young lady,” my father shouted, “you can go to your room.” As walked through the high school corridor a group of girls squealed as. Ipassed, “Is it animal, mineral, or vegetable?” I didn't fit any of their categories. Thad a new secret, something so terrible I knew I could never tell anyone. I dis- covered it about myself during the Saturday matinee at the Colvin Theater. One after- noon I stayed in the bathroom at the theater for a long time. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. When I came out the adult movie was showing. I snuck in and watched. I melted as Sophia Loren moved her body against her leading man. Her hand cupped the back of his neck as they kissed, her long red nails trailed against his skin. I shivered with pleasure. Every Saturday after that I hid in the bathroom soI could sneak out and watch the adult movies. A new hunger gnawed at me. It frightened me, but I knew better than to confide in a single soul. I was drowning in my own loneliness. One day my high school English teacher, Mrs. Noble, gave us a homework assign- ment: bring in eight lines of our favorite poem and read them in front of the class. Some of the kids moaned and groaned that they didn’t have a favorite poem and it sounded “bor-ring,” But I panicked. If read a poem I loved, it would leave me vulnerable and exposed. And yet, to read eight lines I didn’t care about felt like self-betrayal. ‘When it was my turn to read the next day, T brought my math book with me up tothe front of the room, At the beginning of the semester Td made a cover for the text book out of a brown grocery bag and copied a poem by Poe across the inside flap. I cleared my throat and looked at Mrs. Noble. She smiled and nodded at me. I read the first eight lines: : From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; ‘And all I lov'd, I lov'd alone. [ tried to read the words in a flat sing-song tone without feeling, so none of the | |STONE BUTCH BLUES 25 kids would understand what his poem meant to me, but their eyes were already glazed with boredom. I dropped my gaze and walked back to my seat. Mrs. Noble squeezed my arm as J passed, and when I looked up I saw she had tears in her eyes. The way she looked at me made me want to cry, too. It was as though she could really see me, and there was no criticism of me in her eyes. The whole world was in motion, but you'd never have known it from my life. The only way I heard about the Civil Rights movement was from the copies of LIFE magazine that came to our house. Every week I was the first one in the family to read the newest issue. The image burned into my mind was one of two water fountains labeled Colored and White, Other photos let me see brave people—dark-skinned and light—try to change that. Iread their picket signs. I saw them bloodied at lunch counters, facing down steely- faced troops in Birmingham. I saw their clothes ripped from their bodies by fire hoses and police dogs. I wondered if I could ever be that brave. T saw a picture from Washington, DC. of more people than I ever could have im- agined coming together in one place. Martin Luther King told them about his dream. I wished I could be part of it. Istudied my parents’ faces as they calmly read the same magazines. They never said a word about it. The world was turning upside down and they quietly leafed through the pages as though they were skimming a Sears catalog. “T wish I could go down South on a Freedom Ride,” I said out loud one night at dinner. I watched my parents exchange a complex series of looks across the table. They continued to eat in silence. My father put down his fork. “That has nothing to do with us,” he firmly closed the subject. My mother looked back and forth from his face to mine. I could tell she wanted to avoid the impending explosion at any cost. She smiled. “You know what I can’t fig- ure out?” We all turned to look at her. “You know that song by Peter, Paul, and Mary? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind?"’ I nodded, eager to hear her question. “T don’t understand what good blowing in the wind would do.” Both my parents collapsed in guffaws. When I was fifteen years old I got an after-school job. That changed everything. I had to convince the shrink it would be good for me before my parents would give me per- mission. I convinced him. I worked setting type by hand in a print shop. I had told Barbara, one of my only friends in homeroom class, that if] didn’t get a job I'd just die, and her older sister got this one for me by lying and swearing I was sixteen. Nobody at work cared if I wore jeans and T-shirts. They paid me a stack of cash26 at the end of each week, and my coworkers were nice to me. It wasn't that they didn’t notice I was different, they just didn’t seem to care as muchas the high school kids did. ‘After school I hurriedly changed out of my skirt and raced to work. My coworkers asked me how my day was and they told me about how it was when they were in high school. ‘A kid could forget sometimes that adults were ever teenagers unless they remind you. ‘One day a printer from another floor asked Eddie, my foreman, “Who's the butch?” Eddie just laughed, and they walked off talking. The two women who worked on ei- ther side of me glanced over to see if I was hurt. I was more confused than anything. ‘That night, on dinner break, my friend Gloria ate her meal next to me. Out of the blue she told me about her brother—how he’s a pansy and wears women’s dresses but she loves him anyway and how she hates to see the way people treat him cause after all it’s not his fault he’s that way. She told me she even went with him once toa bar where he hung out with his friends and all these mannish women were coming on to her. She shuddered when she said that. I wondered why she was telling me this. “What place was that?” I asked her. “What?” She looked sorry she had opened up the subject. “Where's the place where those people are?” Gloria sighed. “Please,” I asked her. My voice was trembling. She looked around before she spoke. “It’s in Niagara Falls,” she dropped her voice. “Why do you want to know?” 7 I shrugged. “What's the name of it?” L tried to sound real casual. Gloria sighed deeply. “Tifka’s.” ‘That’s all she said.CHAPTER t was almost a year before I got up the nerve to call telephone information for the address of Tifka’s. Finally I stood on the street in front of the bar, scared to death. I wondered what made me think this was the place I could fit. And what if I didn't? I wore my blue-and-red striped shirt, a navy blue jacket to hide my breasts, black pressed chinos, and black Keds high-tops, because I had no dress shoes. When I stepped inside, it was just a bar. Through the haze of smoke J saw faces glance over and look me up and down. There was no turning back, and I didn’t want to. For the first time I might have found my people. I just didn’t know how to penetrate this society. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Genny. “How old are you?” the bartender asked. “Old enough,” I countered and put my money down. A round of smirks rolled around the bar. I sipped the beer and tried to act cool. An older drag queen studied me carefully. I picked up my beer and walked toward the smoke-filled backroom. ‘What I saw there released tears I'd held back for years: strong, burly women, wear- ing ties and suit coats. Their hair was slicked back in perfect DA's. They were the hand- 228 somest women I'd ever seen. Some: of them were wrapped in slow motion dances with women in tight dresses and high heels who touched them tenderly. Just watching made me ache with need. This was everything I could have hoped for in life. ae “You ever been in a bar like this before?” the drag queen asked me. “Lots of times,” I answered quickly. She smiled. Then I wanted to ask her something so badly I forgot to keep up my lie. “Can I really buy a woman a drink or ask her to dance?” “Sure, honey,” she said, “but only the femmes.” She laughed and told me her name was Mona. 1 focused on a woman sitting at a table alone. God, she was beautiful. I wanted to dance with her. The Four Tops were singing, Baby, [need your loving. I wasn't sure I knew how to slow dance, but I made a beeline for her before I lost my nerve. “Would you dance with me?” I asked. Mona and the bouncer picked me up and practically carried me into the front bar and set me ona stool. Mona put her hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eyes. “Kid, there's a few things I should tell you. It's my fault. I told you it was OK to.ask a woman to dance. But the first thing you should know is—don't ask Butch Al's woman!” I was making a mental note of this when Butch Al's shadow fell across me. The bouncer stood between us and the drag queens shooed her into the backroom. It hap- pened ina flash, but a glimpse of this woman had floored me. Butch Al was a glance at power, a memory I was afraid to hang onto and afraid to let go of. sat trembling at the bar long after the momentary excitement had died down for everyone else. I felt exiled to the front of the bar, more lonely than before I came in, because now I knew what I wasn’t a part of. A red light flashed over the bar. Mona grabbed my hand and dragged me through the backroom into the women’s bathroom. She flipped the toilet seat down and told me to climb up ont. She closed the stall door part way and said to stay there and be quiet. The cops were here. So there I crouched. For a long time. It wasn’t until I frightened a femme half to death when she opened the stall door that I discovered the police had {eft long ago with their ‘payoff from the owner. ‘No one remembered that the kid was hidden in the bathroom. ‘As | emerged from the john, everyone in the backroom had a good laugh at my’ expense. I retreated to the front bar again and nursed a beer. i Later I felt ahand on my arm. Here was that beautiful woman I had asked to dance, This was Butch Al's femme. s “C’mon honey, come sit with us,” she offered. “No, I'm OK out here,” I said as bravely as I could. But she put her arm around me gently and guided me off the bar stool. “C'mon, joinus. It’s OK. Al won't hurt you,” she reassured me. “Her bark is worseSTONE BUTCH BLUES 29 than her bite.” I doubted that. Especially when Butch Al stood up as I approached their table. She was a big woman. I don’t know how tall she really was. I was only a kid. But she towered over me in height and stature. I immediately loved the strength in her face. The way her jaw set. The anger in her eyes. The way she carried her body. Her body both emerged from her sports coat and was hidden. Curves and creases. Broad back, wide neck. Large breasts bound tight. Folds of white shirt and tie and jacket. Hips concealed. She looked me up and down. I widened my stance. She took that in. Her mouth tefused to smile, but it seemed her eyes did. She extended a beefy hand. I took it. The solidness of her handshake caught me by surprise. She strengthened her grip, I responded in kind. I was relieved I wasn't wearing a ring. Her clasp tightened, so did mine. Fi- nally she smiled. “There’s hope for you,” she said. I flushed at how I gratefully I embraced her words. I guess you could explain away that handshake by calling it bravado. But it meant more than that to me then, and it still does. It’s not just a way of measuring strength. Ahandshake like that is a challenge. It seeks out power through incremental encourage- ment. At the point of maximum strength, once equity is established, then you have really met. Thad really met Butch Al. I was so excited. And scared. J needn't have been: no one was ever kinder to me. She was gruff with me alright. But she peppered it with scruffing my hair, hugging my shoulders, and giving my face something more than a pat and less than a slap. It felt good. I liked the affection in her voice when she called me kid, which she did frequently. She took me under her wing and taught me all the things she thought were most important for a baby butch like me to know before em- barking on such a dangerous and painful journey. In her own way, she was very pa- tient about it. In those days the bars in the Tenderloin district were gay by percentage. Tifka’s was about 25 percent gay. That meant we had a quarter of the tables and dance floor. The other three-quarters were always pushing against our space. She taught me how we held our territory. ~-» [learned to fear the cops as a mortal enemy and to hate the pimps who controlled the lives of so many of the women we loved. And I learned to laugh. That summer, Friday and Saturday nights were full of laughter and mostly gentle teasing. ~The drag queens would sit on my lap and we'd pose for Polaroid pictures. We didn't ‘out till much later that the guy who took them for us was an undercover cop. I could t the old bulldaggers and see my own future. And I learned what I wanted from t woman by watching Butch Al and her lover Jacqueline. ‘They let me hang with the two of them all summer long. I had told my parents I ‘working double shifts on Friday and Saturday nights, ‘‘to save up for college,” and staying overnight with a friend from school who lived near my job. They chose30 to believe my alibi. All week long I counted the hours till Friday night when I could punch out of work early and head for Niagara Falls. ‘After the bar closed we'd walk down the street, pretty tipsy, one of us on each of Jacqueline’s arms, She'd throw her head up to the heavens and say, “Thank you God for these two good-looking butches.” Al and I would lean forward and wink at each other and we'd all laugh for the sheer joy of being who we were, and being it together. ‘They let me sleep over weekends on their soft old couch. Jacqueline cooked eggs at 4:00 a.m. while Al taught me. It was always the same lesson: toughen up. Al never said exactly what was coming. It was never spelled out. But I got the feeling it was aw- ful. [knew she was worried about my surviving it. I wondered if I was ready. Al's mes- sage was: You're not! That was not encouraging. But I knew it was the urgency Al felt to prepare me for such a difficult life that gave her lessons a sharp edge. She never meant to cut me. She nurtured my butch strength the best way she knew how. And, she reminded me fre- quently, no one had ever done that when she was a baby butch, and she had survived. That was strangely reassuring. I had Butch Al for a mentor. ‘Aland Jackie groomed me. Literally. Jacqueline gave me haircuts in their kitchen. They took me to get my first sports coat and tie at the secondhand stores. Al combed the racks, pulling out sports coats, one after another. I tried on each one. Jackie would tilt her head, then shake it. Finally, Jackie smoothed my lapels and nodded in approval. Al gave a low whistle of appreciation. I had died and gone to butch heaven! Then came the tie. Al picked it out for me. A narrow black silk tie. “You can't go wrong with a black tie,” she informed me solemnly. And, of course, she was right. It was fun alright. But the issue of sex was pressing on me from within and with- out, and Al knew it, One night at the kitchen table Al pulled out a cardboard box and handed it over to me to open. Inside was a rubber dildo. I was shocked. “You know what that is?” she asked me. “Sure,” I said. “You know what to do with it?” “Sure,” I lied. Jacqueline rattled the dishes. “Al, for Christsakes. Give the kid a break, will you?” “A butch has gotta know these things,” Al insisted. Jackie threw down her dishtowel and left the kitchen in exasperation. This was to be our butch “father to son” talk. Al talked, I listened. “Do you un- derstand?” she pressed. “Sure,” I said, “sure.” ‘Al was satisfied she had imparted enough information by the time Jackie returned to the kitchen. “One more thing, kid,” Al added, “don’t be like those bulldaggers who put this’ on and strut their stuff. Use a little decorum, you know what I mean?” “Sure,” I said. I didn’t.STONE BUTCH BLUES 31 Al left the room to take a shower before bed. Jacqueline dried the dishes long enough that the blush drained from my face and my temples stopped pounding. She sat down ona kitchen chair next to me. “Did you understand what Al was telling you, honey?” “Sure,” I said, and vowed to never say that again. “Ts there anything you don’t understand?” “Well,” I started slowly, “it sounds like it takes a little practice, but I get the general idea. I mean that noon and midnight stuff sounds, well, like you got to practice it to get it right.” Jacqueline looked confused. Then she laughed till tears streamed downher cheeks. “Honey,” she'd start, but she was laughing too hard to continue. “Honey. You can’t learn to fuck from reading Popular Mechanics. That isn’t what makes a butch a good lover.” This was exactly what I needed to know! “Well, what does make a butch a good lover?” I asked, trying to sound like the answer didn’t mean all that much to me. Her face softened. “That's kinda hard to explain. I guess being a good lover means respecting a femme. It means listening to her body. And even if the sex gets a little rough, or whatever, that it’s what she wants too, and inside you're still coming from a gentle place. Does that make sense?” Itdid not. It was less information than I wanted. It turned out, however, to be the information I needed. It just took thinking about it for the rest of my life. Jacqueline took the rubber cock from my hands. Had I been holding it all this time? She placed it carefully on my thigh. My body temperature rose. She began to touch it gently, like it was something really beautiful. “You know, you could make a woman feel real good with this thing. Maybe better than she ever felt in her life.” She stopped stroking the dildo. “Or you could really hurt her, and remind her of all the ways she’s ever been hurt in her life. You got to think about that every time you strap this on. Then you'll be a good lover.” I waited, hoping there was more. There was not. Jackie got up and puttered around the kitchen. I went to bed. I tried to memorize every word that had been said to me before I fell asleep. ‘When Monique began to flirt with me, everyone at the bar was watching. Monique scared me to death. Jacqueline once said that Monique used sex like a weapon. Did Monique really want me? The butches said it was true, so it must be. Somehow every- one knew at once that I would lose my butch virginity with Monique. - On Friday night the butches punched my shoulders, clapped me on the back, ad- + justed my tie, and sent me over to her table. As Monique and I left together I noticed none of the other femmes were encouraging me. Why wouldn't Jacqueline look at me? © She just tapped her long painted nails on that whiskey glass and stared at it like it was the only thing in the room. Did she sense the impending tragedy before I did? > Thenext evening I came to the bar late, hoping that Monique and her crowd would not be there waiting. They were. I slunk over to our table and sat down. No one knew we32 exactly what had or had not happened the night before. But everyone new something was very wrong. I sat drowning in my own shame, remembering our date. I was scared by the time Thad gotten to Monique’s house. It occurred to me that I didn’t really know what sex was, When and how did it begin? What was I supposed to do? And Monique fright- ened the hell out of me. All of a sudden I'd changed my mind. I didn’t want to go through with it, Ichattered nervously. Monique smirked. As I moved from couch to chair, she followed. “Whatsa matter?” she mocked me. “Don’t you like me, honey? Whatsa matter, huh?” I made small talk until Monique finally stood up in exasperation. “Get the hell out of here!” She sounded disgusted with me, I mumbled relieved excuses and ran from her house. But back at the bar, I couldn’t escape the consequences. I sat at a table across from Monique and rubbed my forehead with my hands, as though I could wipe away the mem- ory. I wondered how long this evening could possibly last. A long time. A very long time. Monique whispered something to a butch sitting near her. The butch crossed the room and approached our table. “Hey,” she called to me. I didn’t look up. “Hey, femme, you wanna dance with a real butch?” I twisted in my seat. Al whispered something to this butch I couldn't hear. “Oh, I’m sorry Al, I didn’t know she was your femme.” Al stood up and hit the butch before any of us knew what had happened. Then Al looked at me expectantly. “Well?” she said. She was holding up the butch who was dou- bled over. Al wanted me to hit the woman, to defend my honor. I couldn’t think of any- one in the room I would want to hit, except maybe myself. I had no honor to defend, | The butches nearest Monique stood, ready to cross the room. Al and the other | butches in our crowd lined up in front of the table to defend me. Jacqueline put her hand | on my thigh to reassure me that I didn't have to fight. She needn’t have. Mona came | up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. The femmes were: closing ranks with me, too. I sat with my face in my hands, shaking my head, wanting it all to stop. But it wouldn't. Monique's crowd finally backed down. But none of us could leave the bar until they did, otherwise we'd get jumped. It was going to be a long night. ‘Al was furious with me. “You gonna let that bulldagger talk to you that way?” She thumped the table for emphasis. : “Shut up, Al,” Jacqueline snapped. It surprised me enough that I raised my face to look at her, She was glowering at Al. “Just leave the kid alone, will ya please?” Al stopped yelling at me, but she turned her back to me to watch the couples dane- ing, Her body language said she was still pretty disgusted with me. Jacqueline just kept tapping her nails on her whiskey glass like the evening before. It took me a long time to learn femme Morse code. After a while the bar crowd started thinning out. Yvette came in. Jacqueline watchet her with obvious concern.‘STONEBUTCH BLUES 33 “What's the matter?” I asked, roused from my self-pity. Jackie studied my face. “You tell me,” she said. Tlooked at Yvette. Like Jacqueline, she had worked the streets since she had been a teenager. Al made Jackie stop turning tricks. Al could support them both on the money she earned at her union job in the auto plant. ‘Yvette didn’t have a butch who worked in the factories. Yvette didn’t have anyone but the other working girls. “She looks like she had a hard night,” I offered. Jacqueline nodded. “Those are mean streets, We get real hurt out there.” Imarveled at the intimacy suggested in this information. Then she seemed to change the subject. “What do you think she wants right now?” Jacqueline asked me. “To be left alone,” J said, thinking of my own need. She smiled. “Yeah, she wants to be left alone. She doesn’t want one more person in this goddamn world to ask anything from her tonight. But she sure could use some comfort, you know what I mean?” Maybe I did. “She might really like it if a butch like you went over and just asked her to dance, you know? Not hit on her.” Ithought maybe I could do that. Anything to take the sting out of my own shame. Jacqueline pulled my sleeve. “Do it gently, understand?” Inodded and walked slowly across the room to Yvette. She held her head in her hands. I cleared my throat. She looked at me wearily and sipped from her drink. “What do you want?” she asked me. “Ah, I thought, would you dance with me?” She shook her head. “Maybe later, baby. OK?” Maybe it was the way I just stood there. There was no going back across the room in front of Monique's group or mine without having danced. I hadn't thought of that, Had Jackie? Or maybe Jacqueline’s eyes connected with Yvette’s from across the room, But finally Yvette said, “Yeah, why not,” and stood up to dance with me, I waited for her in the middle of the dance floor. Roy Orbison’s voice was smooth and dreamy. I stood still, with her hand in mine until she relaxed and moved toward me, After we'd danced for a few moments, Yvette told me, “It’s OK to breathe, you know.” We laughed real hard, together. Then I felt her body move closer and we kind of melted together. I discovered all the sweet surprises a femme can give a butch: her hand on the back of my neck, open on my shoulder, or balled up like a fist. The feel of her belly and thighs against mine. Her lips almost touching my ear. The music stopped and she started to pull away. I held her hand gently. “Please?” Tasked. “Honey,” she laughed, “you just said the magic word.” ‘We danced a few slow songs in a row. Our bodies swung effortlessly in the circle ‘of dance. The slightest shift in the pressure of my hand on her back changed the mo- tion of her body. I never ground my thigh into her pelvis. I knew she had been woundeduM there. Even as a young butch that was the place I protected myself. I felt her pain, she knew mine. I felt her desire, she aroused mine. Finally the music stopped and I let her go. I kissed her on the cheek and thanked her, I crossed the dance floor to my table. I was forever changed. Jacqueline patted my thigh and flashed me a sweet smile. The other femmes— male and female—looked at me differently. As the world beat the stuffing out of us, they tried in every way to protect and nurture our tenderness. My capacity for tender- ness was what they’d seen. The other butches had to recognize me as sexual now, a competitor. Even Al looked at me differently. As painful as this whole ritual had been, it was nothing less than a rite of passage. didn't feel cocky. It taught me that humility was exactly the correct emotion when seek- ing to unleash the power of a woman’s passion. Strong to my enemies, tender to those Tloved and respected. That’s what I wanted to be, Soon I would have to put these qualities to the test. But for the moment, I was happy. ‘The next Friday night at the bar was boisterous. We all laughed and danced. Out of the corner of my eye I looked for Yvette. Jacqueline must have known it because she ex- plained to me that Yvette’s pimp wouldn't let her have a steady butch. My stomach tight- ened in rage. I still kept an eye out for her. After all, a pimp can’t know everything that’s going on, right? ‘When the red light flashed over the bar, I took myself to the women’s bathroom and assumed my post on the toilet. A long time passed. I heard thumping and several shouts. Then it was quiet. I peeked outside the bathroom. All the stone butches and drag queens were lined up facing the wall, hands cuffed behind their backs. Several of the femmes who the cops knew were prostitutes were getting roughed up and separated from the rest. knew by now it would take at least a blow job to get them out of jail tonight. A cop spotted me and grabbed me by the collar. He handcuffed me and threw me across the room. I looked for Al but they had already started taking people to the po- lice vans outside. Jacqueline rushed up to me. “Take care of each other.” she said. “Be careful, honey,” she added. Inodded. My wrists were painfully pinned behind my back. I was scared. J would try to be very careful. I hoped ‘Al and J could take care of each other. By the time they had nabbed me, the butch van was full. I rode in the police wagon with Mona and the other drag queens. I was glad. Mona kissed my cheek and told me not to be afraid. She said I'd be alright. If that was true though, I wondered why all the drag queens looked as scared as felt. At the precinct I saw Yvette and Monique, already arrested on a street sweep. ‘Yvette flashed me a smile for courage, I gave her a wink. A cop shoved me from behind intoSTONE BUTCH BLUES 35 the belly of the precinct. I was headed for the bulls’ tank. They were taking Al out of the cell as they were bringing me in. I called her name. She didn’t seem to hear me. The cops locked me up. At least now my wrists were free from the handcuffs. I smoked a cigarette, What was going to happen? Through a grated window I saw some Saturday-night butches getting booked. They had taken Butch Al in the Opposite direction. The drag queens were in the large cell next to ours. Mona and I smiled at each other. At that moment three cops ordered her out of the cell. Her body pulled back slightly. She had tears in her eyes. Then she walked forward with them, rather than be dragged out. I waited. What was happening? About an hour later the cops brought Mona back. My heart broke when I saw her. Two cops were dragging her; she could barely stand. Her hair was wet and stuck to her face. Her makeup was smeared. There was blood running down the back of her seamless stockings. They threw her into the cell next to mine. She stayed where she fell. could hardly breathe. I spoke to her in a whisper. “Honey, you want a cigarette? ‘Want to smoke? C’mere, over here by me.” She looked dazed, unwilling to move. Finally she slid over to the bars beside me. Ilita cigarette and handed it to her. As she smoked, I slid my arm through the bars and touched her hair gently, then rested my hand on her shoulder. I spoke to her quietly. She didn't seem to hear me for a long time. Finally, she leaned her forehead against the bars and I put both my arms around her, “Ttchanges you,” she said. “What they do to you in here, the shit you take every day on the streets—it changes you, you know?” I listened. She smiled. “I can’t remember if I was ever as sweet as you are when I was your age.” Her smile faded. “I don’t want to see you change. I don’t want to see you after you’ve hardened up.” Isort of understood. But I was really worried about Al and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. This sounded like a philosophical discussion. I didn’t know if Iwas going to live to an age where experience would change me. I just wanted to live through tonight. I wanted to know where Al was. The cops told Mona she'd been bailed out. “I must look a mess,” she said. “You look beautiful,” I told her, and I meant it. looked at her face for a last mo- ment, wondering if the men she gave herself to loved her as much as I did. “You really are a sweet butch,” Mona said before she left. That felt good. ‘The cops dragged Al in just after Mona left. She was in pretty bad shape. Her shirt was partly open and her pants zipper was down. Her binder was gone, leaving her large breasts free. Her hair was wet. There was blood running from her mouth and nose. She looked dazed, like Mona. The cops pushed her into the cell. Then they approached me. I backed up until Iwas up against the bars. They stopped and smiled. One cop rubbed his crotch. The other put his hands under my armpits and lifted me up, a couple inches off the floor,36 and slammed me against the bars. He pressed his thumbs deep into my breasts and jammed his knee between my legs. “You should be this tall soon, tall enough your feet would reach the ground. That's when we'll take care of you like we did your pussy friend Allison,” he taunted me. Then they left. Allison. I grabbed my pack of cigarettes and Zippo lighter and slid over to where Al was slumped on the floor. I was shaking. “Al,” I said, extending the pack. She didn’t look up. I put my hand on her arm. She sloughed it off. Her head was down. I could just see the expanse of her wide back, the curves of her shoulders. I touched them without thinking twice. She let me. I smoked with one hand and touched her back with the other. She began to trem- ble. I put my arms around her. Her body softened against me. She was hurt, The par- ent had become the child for this moment. I felt strong. There was comfort to be found in my arms. “Hey, look at this,” one cop yelled to another. “Allison found herself a baby butch. They look like two faggots.” The cops laughed. My arms took more of her into my circle to protect her, as though I could ward off their jeers and keep her safe in my embrace. Ihad always marveled at her strength. Now I felt the muscles in her back and shoulders and arms. I experienced the power of this stone butch, even as she slumped wearily in my arms. The cops announced Jacqueline had posted our bail. The last words I heard from the cops were, “You'll be back. Remember what we did to your buddy.” What did they do? The questions came back again. Jacqueline looked from Al's face to mine asking the same. I had no answers. Al offered none. In the car Jacqueline held Al in a way that made it look at first glance like Al was comforting her. I sat quietly in the front seat needing comfort, too. I didn’t know the gay man who drove us. “Are you OK?” he asked me. “Sure,” I answered without thinking. He dropped us off at Al and Jackie’s house. Al ate her eggs like she couldn't taste them. She didn’t speak. Jacqueline looked nervously from Al to me and back again. ate and then did the dishes. Al went into the bathroom. “She'll be in there a long time,” Jacqueline said. How did she know? Had this happened many times before? I dried the dishes. Jac- queline turned to focus on me, “Are you OK?” she asked. “Yeah, I'm alright,” I lied. She came closer to me. “Did they hurt you, baby?” “No.” [lied. I was mortaring a brick wall inside myself. The wall didn’t protect me, and yet I watched as though it wasn't my hands placing each brick. Iturned away from her to signal that I had something important to ask. “Jacqueline, am I strong enough?”STONE BUTCH BLUES 37 She came up behind me and turned me around by the shoulder. She pulled my face against her cheek. “Who is, honey?” she whispered. “Nobody’s strong enough. You just get through it the best you can. Butches like you and Al don’t have a choice. It’s gonna happen to you. You just gotta try to live through it.” Iwas already burning with another question. “Al wants me to be tough. You and Mona and the other femmes are always telling me to stay sweet, stay tender. How can Tbe both?” Jacqueline touched my cheek. “Al's right, really. It’s selfish of us girls, I guess, We want you to be strong enough to survive the shit you take. We love how strong you are. But butches get the shit kicked out of their hearts too. And I guess we just some- times wish there was a way to protect your hearts and keep you all tender for us, you know?” I didn’t. I really didn’t. “Is Al tender?” Jacqueline’s face tightened. The question threatened to reveal something that could pierce Butch Al’s armor. Then Jacqueline saw I really needed the answer. “She’s been hurt real bad. It’s hard for Al to say everything she feels. But, yeah. Idon’t think I could be with her if she wasn't tender with me.” ‘We both heard Al unlock the bathroom door. Jacqueline looked apologetic. I sig- naled that I understood. She left the kitchen. I was alone. I had a lot to think about. Tlay down on the couch. After a while, Jackie brought me bedding. She sat down beside me and stroked my face. It felt good. She looked at me for a long time with a pained expression. I didn’t know why but it scared me. I guess I figured she could see what was coming and I couldn't. “Are you really OK, honey?” she asked. Tsmiled. “Yeah.” “Do you need anything?” Yeah. I needed a femme who loved me like she loved Al. I needed Al to tell me exactly what they were going to do to me next time and how to live through it. And Ineeded Jacqueline’s breast. Almost as soon as the thought crossed my mind, she put my hand on her breast. She turned her head in the direction of the bedroom as though she was listening for Al. “Are you sure you’te OK?” she asked one last time. “Yeah, I'm OK,” I said. Her face softened. She touched my cheek and pulled my hand away from her breast. “You're a real butch,” she said, shaking her head. I felt proud when she said that. In the morning I woke up early and left quietly. Butch Al and Jacqueline weren't at the bar after that. Their phone was disconnected. Theard some stories about what happened to Al. I didn’t choose to believe any of them. The summer passed. It was time for my junior year of high school to begin. As summer tumed to fall I stopped going to Niagara Falls on the weekends. Just before Christmas I went back to Tifka’s to see the old crowd. Yvette wasn’t there. I heard she died alone in an alleyway, her throat slashed from ear to ear. Mona overdosed, pur-38 posely. No one had seen Al. Jackie was working the streets again. I walked against a bitter wind from bar to bar along the Tenderloin strip. I heard her laughter before I saw her. There was Jacqueline in the shadow of an alley, sharing an ironic laugh with other working girls. She saw me. Jacqueline came to me readily, smiling, I saw the glaze of heroin across her eyes. She was thin, very thin. She faced me. She opened the collar of my overcoat in order to straighten my tie, She turned my collar up against the cold. I stood with my hands buried deep in my pockets. I felt like I did the night I danced with Yvette. We were asking each other a lot of questions with our eyes and answering them. It all happened real fast. I saw the tears just start spilling from her eyes and then she turned to go. By the time I found my voice to speak, Jacqueline was gone.CHAPTER he note sailed across my desk and glided onto the floor. I kept an eye on Mrs. Rotondo while I bent over and picked it up. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice. DANGER!! My parents want to know why your parents call our house looking for you. I can’t cover for you any more. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!! Love until eternity—your enduring friend, Barbara. Tlooked up and caught Barbara's eyes. She wrung her hands and made a face that begged forgiveness. I smiled and nodded. I mimed smoking a cigarette. Barbara nod- ded and smiled. She made me feel warm inside. Barbara—the girl I'd sat next to in home room for two years. Barbara—the girl who told me if I were a guy she'd be in love with me. We met in the girl’s bathroom. Two of the juniors who were smoking had already opened the windows. “Where’ve you been lately?” Barbara demanded to know. “Working like crazy. I’ve got to get out of my parents’ house or I’m gonna die. They act like they hate my guts.” I took a deep drag on my cigarette. “I think they wish I was never born.” Barbara looked frightened. “Don’t say that,” she told me, then glanced around as if someone might hear. She took a drag of smoke into her mouth and let it trickle out 39ei) as she inhaled it up her nose. “Isn't that wild? It’s called a French Curl. Kevin showed me.” “Oh, shit!” someone hissed. “alright girls, line up!” It was Mrs, Antoinette, the scourge of girls who long for nicotine. She ordered us to line up so she could smell our breath. Since she hadn't ac- tually seen me, I took a chance and slipped out the door. The halls were deserted. Within minutes a maddening bell would ring ‘and the halls would be jammed with kids using their notebooks in front of them like shields in battle. I guess the summer had changed me. Otherwise I would never have snapped the iron bands of habit and left the building during school hours. I wanted to run around the track as fast as I could, to sweat out the sticky sensation of imprisonment. But the boys were in football practice in the middle of the field, and a group of girls were try- ing out for cheerleading, So Iclimbed up into the bleachers and walked to the far end. ‘A red-tailed hawk glided above the trees, an unusual sight in the city. There was no place to go; there was nothing to do. Whatever was going to happen in my life I wanted itto hurry up. I wished I could play quarterback on the football team. I could imagine the weight of the equipment and the uniform tight across my chest. I put my hand against my large breasts. I noticed that five of the eight girls trying out as cheerleaders were blonde. I didn’t know there were five blondes in the whole school. Almost half the school was white, Jewish, and middle class. The other half was Negro and working class. My family was Jewish and working class. I fell into a lonely social abyss. The few friends I had in the school were from families who worked to make ends meet. T watched the cheerleaders leave the field. They looked over their shoulders to see if the boys noticed. Football practice ended. Some of the white boys stayed on the field. One of them, Bobby, nodded toward me with his head. I got up to leave. “Where you goin’, Jess?” he mocked me, then headed toward me.’Several boys followed him. I started to hurry across the bleachers. “Where’re you going, lezzie? | mean, Jezzie.” They followed me as I rushed to get away. He indicated for one of the boys to climb the bleachers in front of me. He and the other boys came directly at me. I leaped over the bleachers and ran onto the field. Bobby tackled me; I hit the dirt hard, It all mushroomed so quickly. I couldn't make it stop. “What’sa matter, Jess? Don't you like us?” Bobby was pushing his hand up under my dress, between my legs. I punched and kicked, but he and the other boys pinned me down. “I saw you watching us. Come on, you want it, don’t you, Jezzy?”” [bit the hand nearest my mouth. “Quch, shit, fuck!” The boy yelled and back- handed me across my face. I could taste my own blood. The expressions on their faces scared me. These were not kids anymore. I punched Bobby’s chest as hard as I could. I must have hit his equipment becauseSTONE BUTCH BLUES 41 I skinned my knuckles and Bobby just laughed. He pressed his forearm against my throat. One of the boys stepped on my ankle with his cleats. I struggled and cursed them. They laughed as though this were a game. -> Bobby unlaced his uniform pants and jammed his penis into my vagina. The pain traveled up to my belly, scaring the hell out of me. It felt like something ripped deep inside of me. I counted the attackers. There were six. The one I was angriest at was Bill Turley. Everyone knew he tried out for the team because the kids teased him about being a sissy. He scuffed the grass with his cleats and waited for his turn. Part of the nightmare was that it all seemed so matter of fact. I couldn’t make it stop, I couldn’t escape it, and so I pretended it wasn’t happening. I looked at the sky, at how pale and placid it was. I imagined it was the ocean and the clouds were white- capped waves. Another boy was huffing and puffing on top of me. I recognized him—Jeffrey Dar- ling, an arrogant bully. Jeffrey grabbed my hair and yanked it back so hard I gasped. He wanted me to pay attention to the rape. He fucked me harder. “You dirty Kike bitch, you fucking bulldagger.” All my crimes were listed. I was guilty as charged. Is this how men and women have sex? I knew this wasn’t making love; this was more like making hate. But was this mechanical motion what all the jokes and dirty magazines and whispers were about? This was it? I giggled, not because what was happening was funny, but because all the fuss about sex suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Jeffrey pulled his cock out of me and slapped my face, back and forth. “It’s not funny,” he shouted. “It’s not funny, you crazy bitch.” Theard the sound of a whistle. “Shit, it’s the coach,” Frank Humphrey warned the other guys. Jeffrey jumped up and pulled up his pants. All the boys scattered toward the gym. Iwas alone on the field. The coach stood a distance away from me, staring. I wob- bled as I tried to stand. There were grass stains on my skirt and blood and slimy stuff running down my legs. “Get out of here, you little whore,” Coach Moriarty ordered. Thad to walk the long distance home since my bus pass wasn't valid this late. I didn’t feel like this was my life I was living anymore. It felt more like a movie. A ’57 Chevy full of boys slowed down. “See you tomorrow, lesbo,” I heard Bobby yell as they passed. Was I their property now? If I wasn’t strong enough to stop them once, could I ever hope to defend myself again? Tran to the bathroom as soon as I got home and threw up in the toilet. Between my legs felt like chopped meat and the shooting pains frightened me. I took a long, long bubble bath. I asked my sister to tell my parents I was sick and went to bed. When I woke up it was time to go to school. But I couldn't, I wasn’t ready! “Now!” My mother ordered me out of bed. My whole body hurt. I tried not to think about the pain between my legs. My parents didn’t seem to notice my split lip orthe way I was limping a little on my ankle. I moved slow as molasses. I couldn’t thinka clearly. “Hurry up,” my mother scolded. “You're going to be late for school.” I purposely missed my bus so] could walk to school. At least if I was late I wouldn't have to face the kids before the bell rang. I forgot everything as I walked. The wind whispered in the trees. Dogs barked and birds chirped. I walked slowly, as though I wasn’t on my way to any place in particular. Then the school building loomed over me like a medieval castle, and all the mem- ories flooded back in a sickening rush. Did the kids already know? The way they whispered behind their hands as I passed in the hallway after first-period class made me think they did. I thought maybe I was being paranoid until one of the girls called out, “Jess, Bobby and Jeffrey are looking for you.” They all laughed. I felt like what happened was my fault. I ducked into my history class just as the bell rang. Mrs. Duncan spoke the dreaded words: “All right, class, tear off a half sheet of paper and number from one to ten. This is a test. Question number one: what year was the Magna Carta signed?” tried to remember if she'd ever taught us what the hell the Magna Carta even was. Ten facts floating in a vacuum. I chewed my pencil and stared at the blank piece of pa- per in front of me. I raised my hand and asked for a bathroom pass. “You can go as soon as you finish the test, Miss Goldberg.” “Um, please Mrs. Duncan. It’s an emergency.” “Yeah,” said Kevin Manley, “‘she has to go find Bobby.” Theard the guffaws behind me as I left the classroom ina panic. I ran through the halls looking for someone to help me. I had to talk to someone. Tran upstairs to the cafeteria, looking for my friend Karla from gym class. When the bell rang I saw Karla in the crush of kids going in and out of the double doors. “Karla,” I yelled, “I have to talk to you.” “What's up?” “T've gotta talk to you.” We made our way to the lunch line. “What are they serving today?” Karla asked me. “Can you see? 7 “Dreck on rice and shit on a shingle.” “Yum! Same as yesterday.” “And the day before.” It was such a relief to laugh with her. We got our trays and winced as the school dietitian dumped a glop of something on each of our plates. We picked up cartons of milk and paid for our lunches. “Can we talk?” I asked her. “Sure,” she said. “How about after lunch?” “Why not now?” Karla looked at me blankly, “Can I sit with you?” I pressed. She continued to stare at me. “Girl, have you gone out of your ‘cotton-pickin’ mind?” L looked confused. “There’s a seating arrangement here. Or haven't you noticed?” The moment she said it I realized it was true. I looked around the lunchroom like I'd never really seen it before. The cafeteria was absolutely, right down the middle,STONE BUTCH BLUES 43 segregated. “‘Get the picture, honey? Where you been?” “Can I sit with you anyway?” Karla tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s a free country,” she said as she tured on her heel and walked away. “Hello, white girl! You new in town?” Darnell teased as he moved over to let me sit down next to Karla. Tlaughed. There was no other sound in the huge room. You could’ve heard a pin drop. My stomach tightened, and the food on my plate looked more disgusting than usual. “Karla,” I sat down next to her. “I really need to talk to you, really bad.” “Uh oh,” someone whispered at our table. Mrs. Benson was racing toward our table. “Young lady, what are you doing?” I took a deep breath. “I’m eating lunch, Mrs. Benson.” Everyone at the table tried to stifle giggles, but when milk sprayed out of Damnell’s nose, well, it just couldn't be controlled. “Come with me, young lady,” Mrs. Benson told me. “Why?” I wanted to know. “I didn’t do anything.” She stormed away. “That was easy,” Darnell said. “Too easy,” Karla answered. “Karla, I really need to talk to you.” I told her. “Uh-oh,” Darryl said, “here comes Jim Crow.” Actually, his name was Moriarty. The coach was headed right for me. I was waiting for him to say something to me, but he didn’t. He grabbed me by the arms, digging his fingers into my flesh. Moriarty half dragged me to the door of the cafeteria. “You little slut,” he whispered. “Tl take care of this, Coach,” Miss Moore, the assistant principal, intervened. She put her arm around me and led me out into the hall. “Child,” she said, “you are in a whole lot of trouble. What the hell were you doing?” “Nothing, Miss Moore. I didn’t do anything. I was just trying to talk to Karla.” She smiled at me. “Sometimes you don’t have to do anything wrong to be in hot water.” All of my panic and fear welled up in my eyes. I wanted so badly to open up to Miss Moore. “Honey, it’s not all that bad,” she reassured me. I couldn't speak. “Are you OK, Jess? Are you in trouble?” She looked at my swollen lip; no one else had noticed. “Do you want to talk, Jess?” I did want to talk. But my mouth wouldn’t move. “Here's the other troublemaker,” Moriarty said. He had Karla in his grip. Miss Moore pulled Karla close to her. “I'll take care of this, Coach. You go back to being lunch monitor.” He looked at her with open hatred. I could see what a racist he was.“C'mon girls.” Miss Moore put her arm around each ofus. “I'll explain to the prin- cipal that you didn’t mean any harm.” Karla and I leaned forward and looked at each other. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” Miss Moore stopped walking. “You girls didn’t do anything wrong. You came up against an unspoken rule that needs changing. I just want you both to survive it.” When the principal, Mr. Donatto, finally called me into his office, Miss Moore asked if she could come in too. He knitted his thick eyebrows together. “Yd prefer it if you didn’t, Suzanne.” Mr. Donatto shut the door and motioned for me to sit down. I felt alone ina hos- tile world. He slumped in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. Tlooked at the painting of George Washington on the wall and wondered whether he was wearing a white sheepskin coat or the painting was never finished. Mr. Donatto cleared his throat. I knew he was ready. “T’ve been told you made some trouble in the lunchroom today, young lady. Would you care to explain yourself?” I shrugged my shoulders, “I didn’t do anything.” Donato leaned back in his chair. ‘The world is a very complicated place. More complex than you kids realize.” Oh god, I thought. Here comes the lecture. “In some schools there are fights between the colored children and the white students. Did you know that?” I shook my head. “['m proud that we have good relations between the races at this school. That's not been easy since the school district changed. We want to keep things calm, do you understand?” “[ don't know why I can’t eat lunch with my friends. We're not fighting.” Donnato’s jaw clenched. “The cafeteria is the way it is because the students are most comfortable with the arrangement.” “Well, I'm not.” I wondered who was controlling my mouth. Donnato slammed his palm on the desk. : ; Miss Moore opened the door, “Can I be of help, sir?” “Get out and shut the door,” he shouted at her. He turned back to me and took a deep breath. “I want you to understand that what we want is good relations between the students.” “Then why can’t I eat lunch with my friends?” Donnato came over to me and leaned so close I could feel his breath on my face. “Young lady, you listen to me and you listen to me good. I’m trying to hold this school together and I’ll be damned if I'm going to let a little troublemaker like you undo all my hard work. Do you understand me?” I blinked as little bits of spit hit my face. “You are suspended for one week.” Suspended? For what? “I wanted to quit anyway,” I told him.STONE BUTCH BLUES 45 He smirked. “You can’t quit until you're sixteen.” “T can’t quit but you can suspend me?” “That's right, young lady. Miss Moore,” Donatto yelled, “this student has been suspended. See that she leaves the building immediately.” Miss Moore was standing outside the door. She smiled at me and put her hand on my shoulder. “You OK?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. “This will blow over,” she assured me. Imade a pleading face. “Let me just see Mrs. Noble and Miss Candi, please? Then T'll go.” Miss Moore nodded. T wanted to talk to her so badly, but I felt as though I was standing in a boat that was drifting away from everyone. I said goodbye and walked away. Mrs. Noble was marking test papers. She looked up as I came into the classroom. “Theard,” she said, and continued to correct papers. I sat on top of a desk in front of hers. “I came to say goodbye.” Mrs. Noble looked up and took off her glasses. “You're quitting school over this?” I shrugged. “They suspended me, but I’m not coming back.” “They suspended you? Over the lunchroom incident?” Mrs. Noble rubbed her eyes and slipped her glasses back on. “Do you think I did something wrong?” She sat back in her chair. “When you do something out of conviction, my dear, itshould be because you believe it’s the right thing to do. If you look for approval from everyone, you'll never be able to act.” I felt criticized. “I'm not asking everybody, I was just asking you,” I sulked. Mrs. Noble shook her head. “Just think about coming back. You must go to college.” I shrugged. “I’m never gonna finish high school. I’m going into the factories.” “You need skills, even to be a laborer.” Ishrugged. “I can't afford college, that’s one thing. My parents aren't going to spend adime on me or co-sign a loan either.” She ran her hands through her hair. I noticed for the first time how gray it was. “What do you want to do with your life?” she asked me. I thought about it. “I want a good job, a union job. I'd really like to get into the steel plant, or Chevy.” “T guess it wasn’t fair of me to want you to want more.” “Like what?” I said, angry that I was now a disappointment to her, too. “Tcould see you becoming a great American poet, or a fiery labor leader, or dis- covering the cure for cancer.” She took off her glasses and wiped them with a Kleenex. “I wanted you to help change the world.” Tlaughed. She had no idea how powerless I really was. “I can’t change anything,” Ttold her. I toyed with telling her what had happened on the football field, but I just46 couldn’t find the words to begin. “Do you know what it takes to change the world, Jess?” I shook my head. “You have to figure out what you really believe in and then find other people who feel the same way. The only thing you have to do alone is to decide what's important to you.” I nodded and slid off the desk. “Id better be going, Mrs. Noble, before they send a posse to eject me from the school grounds.” She stood up and took my face in her hands. She kissed me on the forehead. For some reason it made me think about how it felt in jail with Al and Mona—about mo- ments when you're being torn away from people you love and you feel real close to them. “Come back and visit,” Mrs. Noble said. “Sure,” I lied. Theaded toward the gym to say goodbye to Miss Candi. Miss Johnson stopped me in the hallway. “Where's your hall pass, young lady?” “J don’t need one anymore. I’m suspended.” T sounded cheerful. Only hours before I had felt imprisoned in these halls. Now that I was leaving, the school felt smaller. I wandered through the corridors like an alumna. I could hear the off-key strains of John Philip Sousa coming from the auditorium. I had forgotten there was an assembly last period. I guessed I didn't need to go. As the bell rang, doors flew open and students flowed into the corridors. I waited for the crowd to thin out before I tried to struggle upstream to the gym. "There was no one in the girls’ gym when I got there. Itook my sneakers and shorts out of my locker and put them on. I started playing on the monkey ropes, climbing up one and then across the others. When I shinnied down, [ felt so pent-up I was afraid I'd explode. I ran around the indoor track until I almost dropped. As I stopped I saw Miss Candi looking at me. She had come back to the gym of- fice for something and saw me running. “How long have you been watching me?” She shrugged. “I heard you've been suspended.” “Do you think I did something wrong, Miss Candi?” Even as I said it 1 remem- bered what Mrs, Noble explained about needing approval. “J just don’t believe in rocking the boat, that’s all,” she said, looking away. “Wow,” I sighed in disappointment, “Well, Miss Candi, I just came to say goodbye.” I walked past the auto shop—that's the class I wanted. Instead they'd had me making popovers with lemon sauce in cooking class. How did Mrs. Noble think I could ever change this world by making popovers? ‘Over the main entrance to the school the words Optima fitura were carved in stone. The best is yet to be. Y hoped that was true... “Hey,” Darnell yelled from the second-floor detention room. “Way to go!” I waved to him. “Meet us later,” he yelled. A teacher pulled him inside and shut the window, “Jess!” I heard Karla call my name. “Jess, wait up!” “They suspended me,” I told her. “Me too.” she said. “For two weeks.”STONE BUTCH BLUES 47 “Two weeks? They only suspended me for one! I’m quittin’, though.” Karla whistled through her teeth. “Shit, are you sure about that?” I nodded. “I can’t take it anymore.” “Jess,” Karla said, “with all the shit that went down I forgot to ask you what's up, ‘You said you needed to talk.” That moment was a turning point in my life. I felt like a dam ready to burst but Theard myself say, “Aw, it wasn’t that important.” Karla looked concerned. “Are you sure?” Inodded, feeling the last brick of the wall go up inside of me that might never come down again. “We're going down to Jefferson,” Karla said. “Wanna come?” I shook my head and hugged her goodbye. I didn’t want to face my parents. I knew they wouldn't be home from work yet, if I hurried. As soon as I got home I took two pillowcases and stuffed all my pants and shirts into them. I reached deep into my closet and pulled out the backpack that contained the tie and jacket Al and Jacqueline had bought me. ‘The ring! I took it out of my mother’s jewelry case and slipped it on my left hand. Thurried, afraid my parents would come home and catch me. I found a piece of paper and a pencil. I was sweating and my hand shook. Dear Mom and Dad, \ wrote. “Whatcha doing?” Rachel asked me. “Shhh!” I continued to write. / got kicked out of school. It’s not my fault, in case you care. I'm almost sixteen. I was going to quit anyway. I have a job and money. I'm leaving. Please don’t come afier me. I don’t want to live here anymore. I didn’t know what else to write. They could find me at my job if they wanted to, but there was a chance that they'd be as happy to be rid of me as I'd be relieved to be gone. “Whatcha doing?” Rachel asked me again. Her lip trembled. “Shhh, don’t cry,” I told her. I gave her a hug. “I’m running away from home.” She shook her head. “You can’t,” she said. I nodded my head. “I gotta try. I’m going crazy here.” “Till tell,” Rachel threatened. Irushed out the door, afraid to be caught by my parents at the last moment. They could use force to bring me back, have me arrested or commit me to an institution. Or they could let me go. It was up to them—I’d learned that. I ran down the street until my lungs ached. When I was blocks away I leaned up against a lamppost and caught my breath, I felt free. Free to explore what freedom meant. I looked at my watch. It was time to go to work. I was almost sixteen years old. I had thirty-seven dollars in my pocket. “You're late,” my foreman told me as I punched in.“Sorry,” I said, and started the machine up right away. “Damn kid,” he told Gloria. She kept her head down until he walked away. Then she looked up and smiled. “Tough day, Jess?” I laughed. “I got kicked out of school and ran away from home.” She whistled and shook her head. “I'd take you home with me, but my husband keeps trying to give away the kids we already got.” Tasked Eddie if I could work a double. “I'll let you know later,” he said. At 11:00 p.M. the work ran out and he sent me home. I tried to sleep sitting up at the bus sta~ tion, but the cops kept coming by and asking me to show them my ticket. I bought a ticket for Niagara Falls, but they woke me every time a bus left for the Falls and wanted to know why I wasn’t on it. I walked around and ate breakfast and drank coffee and walked around some more. At noon I went to a movie matinee. When I woke up, I was late for work. Eddie warned me not to be late again. “You look like hell,” Gloria whispered. “Thanks a lot.” I started thinking. “Hey, Gloria, remember when you told me about that bar your brother went to in the Falls?” Gloria tensed. “Yeah, so?” “So does he know of any bars like that here in town?” She shrugged. “It’s impor- tant, Gloria. Honest to god, I really need to know.” Gloria looked nervous. She cleaned her inky hands on her apron as though she wanted to wipe her hands of the whole topic. At lunchtime she pressed a piece of pa- per into my hand. “What's this?” The slip of paper had the word Abba’s written on it. “T called my brother. I asked him where he goes. He said he used to go there.” I smiled from ear to ear. “Do you know where it is?” “What do I have to do, drive you there?” “OK.” I put up my hands in surrender. “Just asking.” I called information and got the address. After my shift I washed up in the bath- room and changed into clean clothes. I looked at the ring on my finger. It fit snugly. I pledged to never take it off. Maybe now it was time for the ring to reveal to me the secrets of surviving my own life. I raced downtown to Abba’s and then stood outside, pacing and smoking. I was just as scared to go into this bar as I’d been to enter Tifka’s. Only this time I was carrying everything I owned in two pillowcases. Where would I go if I was rejected here? I took a deep breath and walked into Abba’s. It was real crowded inside, which made me feel anonymous and safe. I squeezed in at the bar. “A Genny,” I called out to the bartender. She narrowed her eyes. “‘Let’s see some ID.” “They never asked me at Tifka’s,” | protested.STONE BUTCH BLUES 49 She shrugged. “So go get a beer at Tifka’s,” she said as she walked away. I hit the bar with my fist. “Havin’ a hard day, kid?” one of the butches at the bar asked me. “A hard day?” My laughter sounded shrill. “I got kicked out of school, got no place to live, and I’m gonna lose my goddamn job if I can’t find a place to sleep so I can be on time.” She pursed her lips, nodded, and took a swig of her beer. “You can stay at our place for a while if you want,” she said casually, “Are you fucking with me?” I demanded. She shook her head. “You need a place to stay? My girlfriend and Ihave an apart- ment over our garage. You can stay there if you want, it’s up to you.” She signaled to the bartender. “Meg, get the kid a beer, on me, OK?” We introduced ourselves. ‘Jes’ what?” she asked. “Tess, that’s my name. Just Jess.” Toni snorted, “Jes’ Jess, huh?” Meg slammed a bottle of beer in front of me. “Thanks for the beer, Toni.” I saluted her with the bottle. “Can I move in tonight?” Toni laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. If I’m not too drunk to get the key in the door. Hey, Betty!” ‘Toni’s girlfriend came out of the bathroom and stood beside her. “Hey, Betty, meet Dondi. This kid’s an orphan. Parents died in a flaming car wreck, you know?” Toni laughed and took a swig of beer. Betty pulled away from Toni. “That's not funny.” intervened. “Toni said you got a place I could stay. I teally need a place to sleep, Imean real bad.” Betty looked at Toni, shrugged, and walked away. “It’s OK with her,” Toni said. “I'm going back to sit with Betty. I'll find you be- fore we leave.” Tfinished my beer and put my head down on the bar. The room was spinning and I wanted to sleep so badly. Meg rapped her knuckles on the bar near my head. “You drunk or something?” “No, I'm just working round the clock,” I told her. I didn’t think she liked me. Then she brought me another beer. “T didn’t order one.” “It’s on the house,” she said. Go figure. As the crowd started thinning out I found an empty chair near the noisy backroom, leaned my head against the wall, and fell asleep. When I awoke, Betty was tugging on my sleeve, telling me it was time to go home. Toni sang “Roll Me Over in the Clover” as Betty tried to get her into the car. I lay down on the back seat and immediately fell asleep again. “C'mon, wake up,” Betty urged me. We were in their driveway. Betty struggled toprop Toni up against the car. “Don’t give me two problems to deal with,” Betty told50 me curtly. I got out of the car and helped her get Toni upstairs. “You can sleep on the couch tonight,” Betty said. “Who's the kid?” Toni demanded to know. “What's this, your new butch?” “You invited the kid to live in the garage apartment, remember?” Betty snapped. I curled up on the couch and tried to disappear. After a while Betty came out and threw a blanket over me. “If I could just get some sleep tonight, I’ll be out of here,” I told her. “It's OK,” she said wearily. “Don’t worry, it'll be alright.” I clung to that little bit of reassurance, Lying there in the dark I started realizing I was on my own: no more school, no more parents—unless they came after me. I gagged on shame as I recalled what hap- pened to me on the football field. I was afraid I was going to throw up and I hadn’t asked where their bathroom was. I wished this was Al and Jackie's couch. I wanted to wake up in their home. Then I could tell Jacqueline what had happened to me on the foot- ball field. Would I have told her? I realized I might not have told Jackie or Al what the boys did to me. I felt too ashamed. I made a vow to myself before I fell asleep. I promised myself I would never wear a dress again, and I'd never let anyone rape me ever again, no matter what. As it turned out, I could only keep one of those promises.CHAPTER ey kid, what's up?” Meg called out as she wiped down the bar. Familiar faces softened as they welcomed me. I had become a regular at Abba’s. “Hey, Meg. Gimme a beer, will ya?” “Sure, kid, coming right up.” I sat down next to Edwina. “Hey, Ed, can I buy you a beer?” “Yeah,” she laughed, “why would I say no?” It was Friday night. I had money in my pocket and I was feeling fine. “Hey, what about me?” Butch Jan laughed. “And a beer for my elder, Meg.” “Hey, watch that elder shit,” Jan said. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Judging from the length of the red-painted nails, it had to be Peaches. “Hi, honey,” she kissed me gently on the ear. I sighed with pleasure. “And a drink for Peaches,” I called out to Meg. “Child, you're in one damn good mood tonight,” Peaches said. “You get lucky with some girl or something?” Iblushed. She had hit a sore spot. “I just feel so damn good. I got a job and a motor- cycle and friends.” 5182 Ed whistled. “You got a bike?” “Yes,” I shouted, “‘yes, yes! Toni sold me her old Norton. We went out to the su- permarket parking lot Sunday, and I practiced till she got mad and went home without me.” Ed smiled. “Wow. Big bike.” She slapped my open palm. “Jesus, Ed, you know what I did after I registered it downtown yesterday? I mean when I actually realized it was mine? I got on that bike and I rode it two hundred miles out and two hundred miles back.” Everyone roared. I nodded. “Something happened to me. I finally felt really free, I'm so excited. I love that bike. I mean, I actually love it. I love that bike so fucking much I can’t even explain it.” All the butches who rode motorcycles nodded to them- selves. Jan and Edwin clapped me on my shoulders. “Things are lookin up for you, kid. I’m happy for you,” Jan said. “Meg, set up another one for young Marlon Brando, here.” The ring must be working! “ “The Avengers’ on yet?” I asked. Meg shook her head. “Fifteen more minutes. God, I can’t wait to see what Diana Rigg’s wearing this time.” I sighed. “I hope it’s that leather jumpsuit again. I think I'm falling in love with her.” Meg laughed. “Get in line.” The place was starting to fill up. A young guy we'd never seen before came in and ordered a gin and tonic. Meg had just placed the glass in front of him when an older guy came in and flipped open a badge. Uniformed cops rushed in behind him. The young guy was a plant. “You've just served a minor. Alright ladies, gentlemen, leave your drinks on the bar and take out some ID, this is a bust.” Jan and Edwin each grabbed a handful of my shirt and dragged me out the back door. “Out of here, now, get out of here,” they were yelling as I fumbled with my motor- cycle. A couple of cops fanned out around the parking lot. My legs felt like jelly. I couldn't kick-start the bike. “Get the fuck out of here,” they shouted at me. Two uniformed cops headed toward me. One reached for his gun. “Off that bike,” he ordered. “C’mon, c'mon,” I crooned to myself. One good kick and the bike roared to life. I popped the clutch and did an uninten- tional wheelie out of the parking lot. As soon as I got to Toni and Betty's house I banged on their kitchen door. Betty looked alarmed. “What's wrong?” “The bar, everybody, they're busted.” “Calm down,” Toni put her hand on my shoulder. “Calm down and tell us what happened.” I sputtered as I described the bust. “How can we find out what happened to everybody?” J asked them. “We'll find out soon enough, when that phone rings,” Betty said. The phone rang.STONE BUTCH BLUES 53 Betty listened quietly. “Nobody got busted except Meg,” she told us. “Butch Jan and Ed got roughed up a little.” I mubbed my forehead with my hand. “Are they hurt bad?” She shrugged. I felt guilty. “I think they got it worse because they got me out of there.” Betty leaned on the kitchen table and held her head in both hands. Toni went to the refrigerator. “Want a beer, kid?” “Naw, thanks,” I told Toni. “Suit yourself.” Fear nagged at me as I fell asleep that evening. But the real terror didn’t surface until I woke up in the middle of the night. J sat bolt upright, soaking wet, remember- ing the bust at Tifka’s. I had grown an inch or two since then. The next time the police got their hands on me, my age wouldn't save me. Fear boiled in the back of my throat. It was going to happen to me. I knew that. But I couldn't change the way I was. It felt like driving toward the edge of a cliff and seeing what's coming but not being able to brake. I wished Al was around. I wished Jacqueline would tuck me in on their couch, kiss my forehead, and tell me everything would be alright. The owner of Abba’s had been so deeply in debt a couple of years ago that he had to hand carry beer in by the case—the Mob wouldn't allow deliveries until he paid up. So he put out the word that the bar was going gay. He made money hand over fist off us, We were a lucrative and captive market. Usually only one club was open to us at atime. Other owners wanted our business for a while. But Abba’s owner got greedy, so the Mob had him busted and shut down. The new bar was closer to the Tenderloin strip in downtown Buffalo. It was called the Malibou—a jazz bar that would welcome us after the 1:00 a.m. show ended. Or- ganized crime owned the Malibou, too. But a lesbian ran it. We figured that would make adifference. Her name was Gert. She wanted us to call her Aunt Gertie, but it made us feel like a Girl Scout troop—so we called her Cookie. The new club had a bigger dance floor, but it only had one exit. It did have a pool table, though, and Edwin and I played for hours till the sun came up. Ed waited for her girlfriend, Darlene, until dawn. Darlene danced nearby at a bar on Chippewa Street. Just down the block from the Malibou was a hotel where a lot of the pros—female and male—used to take their tricks. At dawn all the working girls got off their shift and filled the Malibou, which never seemed to close, or went to a res- taurant near the bus station for breakfast. Tbegan to notice sometimes Ed didn’t come in on weekends. What else was there in life besides the plants and the bars? “Hey, Ed,” I asked her one morning. “Where were you last weekend?” She looked up from the pool shot she was lining up. “At a different club.” Her answer surprised me. There was only one club open at a time, as far as I knew.54 “Yeah?” I asked her. “Where?” “On the East Side,” she said, chalking up. “You mean it’s a Negro club?” “Black,” she said as she whacked a high ball and sunk it. “It’s a Black club.” Ttook in all of this new information as Ed lined up her next shot. “Shit,” she said as she missed it. “Is it different from this club?” I asked’as I surveyed the table. “Yes and no.” Ed wasn't giving up much this morning. I shrugged and indicated the far corner. I missed the shot. Ed smiled and patted me on the back. J had a lot of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask. Edwin sunk the eight ball by mistake. “Shit,” she hissed, “shit.” She looked me up and down. “What?” she demanded. I shrugged. “Look,” she said. “I work all day with these old bulls at the plant. I like coming in here and spending some time with y'all. But I like being with my own people too, you understand? Besides, Darlene and I wouldn't last a month if hung out on the East Side.” I shook my head. I didn’t understand. “Darlene doesn’t worry about me being here. If spent this much time at my own clubs, well, let’s just say there’d be too much temptation.” “You hungry?” I asked her. “Naw, man, I’m just human.” She sounded defensive. T laughed. “No, I mean you wanna get some breakfast?” She slapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” ‘We met Darlene and the other girls at the restaurant. They were all excited, some- thing about a fight with a customer that all the girls jumped into. “Hey, Ed,” L asked her over coffee as Darlene reenacted her role in the brawl, “you think I could go with you some time? I mean, I don’t know if it’s OK to ask or not.” Ed looked taken aback. “Why? Why you want to go to my club?” “T don’t know, Ed. You're my friend, you know?” She shrugged. “So?” “So this morning I realized how much of you I don't know, that's all. I guess I'd like to meet you on your own turf.” Darlene tugged on Ed’s sleeve, “Baby, you should have been there. We kicked this guy’s ass all the way to kingdom come! He was beggin’ us for mercy.” “T’ve got to think about it. I don’t know;’ Ed said. “Fair enough. Just asking.” Ed stopped coming to the Malibou soon afterward. I asked Grant what was up, but all she said was that Ed “had a chip on her shoulder” ever since Malcolm X was killed in New York City. I wanted to call Ed and talk to her, but Meg told me not to. She told me the butches at the auto plant said Ed was real angry and it was best to just leave her alone. That didn’t feel right to me, but the advice had come down from the old bulls,STONE BUTCH BLUES 55 so] listened. It was springtime when I finally ran into Ed at the diner. I was so happy to see her . Treached out my arms to hug her. She eyed me guardedly, as though examining me for the first time. I feared she wouldn't like what she saw. After a moment she opened her arms to me. Hugging her felt like coming home. Ed started coming back to the Malibou. Out of the blue one morning she said, “I thought about it.” Funny how I knew exactly what she meant—about me going to the club with her. “I didn’t know how I'd feel about taking you, you know? But next Saturday night is an anniversary party for two women. One of them is white. I don’t know, I thought if you wanted to go...” I did. We decided to take Ed’s car. On Saturday night Ed picked me up late. We rode in silence. “You nervous?” she asked me. T nodded. She snorted and shook her head. “Maybe this was a mistake.” “No,” I told her. “Not for the reasons you think. I’m always scared before I go to anew club, any club. You ever feel that way?” “No,” Edwin said. “Well, yes, maybe. I don’t know.” “You nervous, Ed? About going to the club with a white butch, I mean.” “Yeah, maybe a little,” she said as she checked the rearview mirror. Ed stopped at a red light and offered me a cigarette. “I like you though, you know.” I looked out the car window and smiled. “I like you too, Ed. A lot.” I realized I'd hung out on the edges of the Black community with friends after school, but I’d never been deep in the heart of the East Side. “Buffalo is like two cit- ies,” I said. “T'll bet a lot of white people have never even been to this city.” Ed laughed bitterly and nodded. “Segregation is alive and well in Buffalo. That’s it,” Ed added, pointing to a building. “Where?” “You'll see.” Ed parked the car on a nearby side street. ‘We approached the door. Ed knocked hard. An eye appeared at the peep hole. As the door opened, waves of loud music flowed over us. The joint was packed wall-to- wall. A lot of butches immediately came over to welcome Ed and shook her hand or hugged her shoulders. She gestured toward me and shouted something in their ears, but it was too loud to hear much. Several women beckoned us to share their table and each shook my hand as I sat down. Ed ordered us beers and sat down next to me. “Daisy’s already got her eye on you,” Ed yelled in my ear. “The woman sitting directly across the dance floor from us, in the blue dress. She’s checking you out.” I smiled at Daisy. She dropped her eyes and then boldly met mine. After a few minutes she whispered something to her girlfriend and stood up. She was wearing blue spike heels that matched her dress. With a steady step, she made her way directly to our table.“Lord have mercy on your soul, girl,” Ed shouted at me as I rose to meet Daisy. Daisy put out her hand and tugged me toward the dance floor. Edwin grabbed my other hand and pulled me down near her ear. “Are you still uptight?” she yelled. “[’m adjusting,” I shouted back over my shoulder. “J don’t believe you-back there,” Ed said to me hours later as we left the club. “J’m adjusting,” she mimicked me with a laugh and punched my shoulder. “Girl, you're just lucky that Daisy’s ex wasn’t there. She would have kicked your mutherfuckin’ white ass.” ‘She was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder that spun her around. I was pushed hard from behind. When I turned I caught a glimpse of a cop car with both doors open. Two cops were pushing us with their nightsticks. “Up against the wall, girls.” They pushed us into an alley. Ed put her hand on the back of my shoulder as reassurance. “Keep your hands to yourself, bulldagger,” one cop yelled as he slammed her against, the wall. Even as I was shoved against the brick wall I could still feel the comfort of her hand as it had briefly touched my shoulder. “Spread your legs, girls. Wider.” One of the cops grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head backward as he kicked my legs apart with his boot. He took my wallet out of my back pocket and opened it. I looked over at Ed. The cop was patting her down and running his hands up her thighs. He pulled her wallet out of her pocket, took out the money, and stuffed it in his own pocket. “Byes straight ahead,” the cop behind me had his mouth close to my ear. ‘The other cop began shouting at Ed. “You think you’re a guy, huh? You think you can take it like a guy? We'll see. What's these?” he said. He yanked up her shirt and pulled her binder down around her waist. He grabbed her breasts so hard she gasped. “Leave her alone,” I yelled. “Shut up, you fuckin’ pervert,” the cop behind me shouted and bashed my face against the wall. I saw a kaleidoscope of colors. Ed and I spun around and looked at each other for a split second. Funny, it seemed as though we had plenty of time to consult. There are times, the old bulls told me, when it’s best to take your beating and hope the cops will leave you on the ground when they're done with you. Other times your life may be in danger, or your sanity, and it’s worth it to try to fight back. It’s a tough call. In the blink of an eye, Ed and I decided to fight. We each punched and kicked the nearest cop. For just a moment things started looking up for us. I kicked the cop in front of me in the shins over and over again. Ed got the other cop in the groin and was hit- ting him on the head with both her fists. As one cop lunged at me, the point of his nightstick caught me squarely in the so- Jar plexus. I crashed against the wall, unable to breath, Then I heard a sickening thud as a nightstick connected with Ed’s skull. I vomited. The cops beat us until I found myselfSTONE BUTCH BLUES 57 wondering through the pain why they weren't exhausted from the effort. Suddenly we heard voices shouting nearby. “C'mon,” one cop said to the other. Ed and I were on the ground. I could see the boot of the cop standing over me pull back. “You fuckin’ traitor,” he spat, as his boot cracked my rib for punctuation. The next thing I remember was light glowing in the sky beyond the alley. The pave- ment felt cold and hard against my cheek. Ed was lying next to me, her face turned away. I stretched out my fingers to touch her, but I couldn’t reach. My hand rested in the pool of blood around her head. “Ed,” I whispered, “Ed, please wake up. Oh god, please don’t be dead.” “What,” she moaned. “We got to get out of here, Ed.” “OK,” she said, “you pull the car up.” “Don't make me laugh,” I told her. “I can hardly breathe.” I passed out again. Darlene told us later that a family on their way to church found us. They got some people to help get us to their home nearby. They didn’t take us to the hospital because they didn’t know if we were in trouble with the law or not. When Edwin came to, she gave them Darlene’s number. Darlene and her friends came and got us. Darlene took care of both of us at their apartment for a week before Ed or I were really coherent. “Where's Ed, is she OK?” was the first thing I remember asking Darlene. “That's the first thing she asked me—how you were,” Darlene answered. “Alive. You're both alive, you stupid motherfuckers.” Neither of us ever saw an emergency room doctor for fear they'd call the cops to see if we were in any trouble. When Ed and I could sit up and even walk a little, we began recuperating in the living room together during the days while Darlene slept. The couch opened up as a bed. Ed gave me The Ballot and the Bullet by Malcolm X. She encouraged me to read WE.B. Du Bois and James Baldwin. But we each had a headache so bad we could hardly tead the newspaper. All day long we lay next to each other and watched television: “Get Smart,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” “Green Acres.” We healed in spite of it. Ed got disability pay during her absence. I lost my job as a printer. When Ed and I finally showed up at the Malibou a month later, someone pulled the plug on the jukebox and everyone rushed up to hug us. “No, wait, gently,” we shouted, both backing up toward the door. “Notice the resemblance?” I asked, as Ed and I put our faces near each other. We had matching gashes over our right eyebrows. Speaking for myself, I lost a lot of confidence after that beating. The pain in my rib cage reminded me with every breath how vulnerable I really was. I propped myself up at a back table and watched all my friends dancing together. Itfelt good to be back home. Peaches sat down next to me, draped her arm around my shoulders, and planted a long sweet kiss on my cheek. Cookie offered me a job as bouncer on the weekends. I held my ribs and winced.58 She said I could wait on tables until I healed, if I wanted to. I sure needed the money. I watched Justine, a stunning drag queen, going from table to table with an empty Maxwell House coffee can, collecting money. She came over to the table where Peaches and I were sitting and began counting out the bills. “You don’t have to contribute, darlin.” “What's it for?” I asked. “For your new suit,” she answered, and continued counting the bills. “Whose new suit?” “Your new suit, honey. You can't expect to be Master of Ceremonies of the Monte Carlo Night Drag Show Extravaganza in that tacky old outfit, do you?” I looked be- wildered. “We're taking you out and buying you a new suit,” Peaches explained. “You're going to emcee the drag show next month.” “That's what I just told you,” Justine sounded annoyed. “J don’t know how to be an emcee.” “Don't worry, darlin’ ” Justine laughed, “you're not the star.” Peaches threw her head back. “We are!” “But you are going to look divine,” Justine said, waving a wad of bills. Ihad heard horror stories about butches and their femmes trying to shop for a suit at Kleinhan's clothing store. But this time Kleinhan’s was in for some discomfort as three powerful queens in full drag helped me pick it out. “No,” Justine shook her head emphatically. “She's an emcee, not a fucking un- dertaker.” “Earth tones,” Georgetta tumed my face in her hands, “because of her coloring.” “No, no, no,” Peaches said, “this is it.” She held up a dark blue gabardine suit. “Yes,” Justine sighed as I came out of the dressing room. “Yes!” “Ooh, honey, I just might swing for you,” Georgetta exclaimed. Peaches fussed with my lapels. “Yes, yes, yes.” “We'll take it,” Georgetta told the salesman, who looked visibly annoyed. “Tai- lor it for the child. And make it look nice!” The salesman pulled the tape measure from around his neck and tried to chalk the trousers and jacket without touching me. Finally he straightened up. “You can pick it up in one week,” he announced. “We can pick it up today,” Georgetta declared. “We'll just walk around the store trying things on till it’s ready. “No,” the salesman blurted. “Come back in two hours. Just leave now. Just leave.” “We'll be back in an hour, darlin’”” Justine said over her shoulder. “See you.” Georgetta blew him a kiss. “C’mon.” Peaches waved for me to follow. “It’s our turn.” They steered me to- ward the store next door. We were headed for the lingerie department.STONE BUTCH BLUES 59 Ishook my head. “I gotta use the bathroom. God, I wish I could wait, but I can't.” Justine touched my cheek. “Sorry, darlin’” Peaches drew herself up to her full height. “C’mon. We'll all go in together with her.” “No,” I held up both hands. “I’m afraid we'll all get busted.” My bladder ached. Iwished I hadn’t waited so long. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the women’s bathroom. ‘Two women were freshening their makeup in front of the mirror. One glanced at the other and finished applying her lipstick. “Is that a man or a woman?” she said to her friend as I passed them. The other woman turned to me. “This is the women’s bathroom,” she informed me. I nodded. “I know.” Ilocked the stall door behind me. Their laughter cut me to the bone. “You don't really know if that’s aman or not,” one woman said to the other. “We should call security and make sure.” I flushed the toilet and fumbled with my zipper in fear. Maybe it was just an idle threat. Maybe they really would call security. I hurried out of the bathroom as soon as I heard both women leave. “You OK, darlin’?” Justine asked. I nodded. She smiled. “You took ten years off those girls’ lives.” I forced myself to smile. “Naw. They never would have made fun of a guy like that. I was afraid they might call the cops on me. They took ten years off my life.” “C'mon.” Peaches impatiently tugged on my sleeve. “It’s high femme time.” She dragged me toward the lingerie department. “What do you think?” Georgetta held up a red silk nightie. “Black,” I told her. “That black lace one.” “Lord, this boy’s got taste,” she said. Peaches sighed. “It’s funny, seeing you trying on that suit, all excited and every- thing. I remember my father making me buy a suit for Sunday service. When I dreamed of dressing up, child, it wasn’t no suit. I'll tell you that much. I dreamt about some- thing, you know, tasteful—with spaghetti straps. Kinda low cut,” she drew a finger across her bodice. “I felt like a ballerina in a three-piece suit.” Georgetta snorted. “More like a fairy.” Peaches threw back her head and dragged me away. ‘We went back to Kleinhan’s an hour later. The suit was ready. “We have enough money left over to pick out a shirt and tie,” Georgetta announced. Justine held up a powder blue dress shirt. It was more beautiful than any shirt my father ever owned. The buttons were sky blue with white swirls, like clouds. Peaches and Georgetta settled on a burgundy silk tie. The salesmen held their heads in their hands as though they all had headaches. ‘Well, better them than us.“can’t thank you all enough,” J told them. “Yes you can, honey. You best pick me as the winner of that drag show.” “She can see I’m the fairest of them all.” “Oh, please child, don’t make me laugh.” Theld up both my hands. “Wait,” I protested, “you never told me I was going to judge the drag show.” “Well, darlin” Justine smiled, “it’s a month away. Don't you worry your hand- some little head about it.” The month passed quickly. I tried to avoid all the squabbles between contestants over how the show should be run. I arrived at the Malibou alittle late the night of the show, Ttook off my helmet and sat on my Norton in the back parking lot, smoking a cigarette. “Child, where have you been?” Peaches demanded as she rocked from side to side in her high heels on the gravel. “I'm coming,” I shouted, grinding out my cigarette. “I'll be right there.” Everyone stopped and stared as I walked in the door. “You look good enough to eat,” Peaches said, smoothing my lapels. Georgetta clasped her hands in front of her. “I think ’'m falling in love.” “Yeah, she says that after every blow job,” Justine muttered. Cookie went over the program with me. I chewed at my thumbnail as she spoke. Td spent my whole life wishing I could be invisible. How was I going to climb up on a stage, with a spotlight on me? When I got up on the runway it was dark in the club, After the spotlight hit me, I could hardly see the crowd. “Sing something,” one of the butches shouted out. “What do I look like, fucking Bert Parks?” Tyelled back. “OK,” I began to sing, “Here she comes, Mis-cell-an-eous.” “Boo!” “Listen up now,” I pleaded, “this is serious.” “This ain't serious, this is a drag show,” someone yelled. “Yeah,” I said. “This is serious.” I realized what I wanted to say. “You know, all Our lives they've told us the way we are isn’t right.” Theard some murmurs, ‘‘Yeah!” : “Well, this is our home. We're family.” There was a ripple of applause from the audience. “You're goddamn right,” one of the drag queens behind me shouted. “So tonight we're going to celebrate the way we are. It’s not only OK, it’s beauti- ful. And I want you all to make our gorgeous sisters in this show feel how much we love and respect them.” The crowd roared in approval. Justine and Peaches ran out and kissed me and then ran backstage to await their cues. T flipped through the index cards Cookie had given me. “Will you please welcome tonight, Miss Diana Ross, singing ‘Stop in the Name of Love’ ” The music swelled,STONE BUTCH BLUES 61 and I stepped aside. Peaches’ dress shimmered as the spotlight illuminated her. What a breath-takingly beautiful human being. “Stop in the name of love,” she grabbed a fistful of my tie as she sang, “before you break my heart.” Her lips were close to mine. I gasped, caught up in the power of her performance. The applause was thunderous. “Get the kid a towel,” someone yelled as I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “Will you please welcome Miss Barbara Lewis, singing ‘Hello Stranger’ ” Justine walked straight toward me—slow, absolutely steady on her spike heels as the music rose. “Hello stranger,” she draped one arm over my shoulder, “it seems like a mighty long time.” I could get to like this. The next performer was Georgetta’s boyfriend, Booker. I'd never seen Booker try on drag before. Even in a dress I still thought of Booker as he. Booker was also doing “Stop in the Name of Love.” Georgetta peeked out from behind the stage wall to watch. “Wouldn't you just know it,” she whispered to me. “You think you married a real man and you find out you've got a sister who borrows your lipstick and won’t return it.” I chuckled. “Lord have mercy,” she said, “that girl’s in trouble.” The strap on Booker’s dress slipped down every time he lifted his arm to sing “Stop!” It could have been very sexy, but he was so nervous he kept trying to hike up the strap. “Help her,” Georgetta said to me. Thanded Georgetta the mike and walked out on stage in front of Booker. I got down onone knee in front of him and pretended he was singing to me. Then I circled behind him and pulled down his strap seductively. “Leave it,” I whispered, as I kissed his shoul- der. Booker pushed me away dramatically, singing, Before you break my heart. The crowd roared its approval. Everybody was really enjoying the way Booker was pulling off this act. None of us saw the red light flashing. ‘The music died and everyone groaned. Then the police flooded into the club. I held my hand up to shield my eyes from the spotlight, but I still I couldn't see what was happening. I heard shouting and tables and chairs overturning. I remembered there was only one door—there was no escape this time. At sixteen years old I was still un- derage. Islowly took off my new blue suit coat, folded it neatly, and put it on the piano at the back of the stage. For a moment I considered taking off my tie, thinking some- how it might go easier for me if I did. But, of course, it wouldn’t have. In fact, the tie made me feel stronger in order to face whatever lay ahead of me. I rolled up my sleeves and stepped off the stage. A cop grabbed me and cuffed my hands tightly behind my back. Another cop was smacking Booker, who was sobbing.The police van was backed right up to the door of the club. The cops roughed us up as they shoved us in. Some of the drag queens bantered nervously on the way to the Precinct, making jokes to relieve the tension. I rode in silence, We were all put together in one huge holding cell. My cuffed hands felt swollen and cold from lack of circulation. I waited in the cell. Two Cops opened the door. They were laughing and talking to themselves, I wasn’t listening. “What do you want, a fucking invitation? Now!” one of them commanded. “C'mon, Jesse,” a cop taunted me, “let’s have a pretty smile for the camera. You're such a pretty girl. Isn’t she pretty, guys?” They snapped my mug shot. One of the cops loosened my tie. As he ripped open my new dress shirt, the sky blue buttons bounced and rolled across the floor. He pulled up my T-shirt, exposing my breasts. My hands were cuffed behind my back. I was flat up against a wall. “Tdon’t think she likes you, Gary,” another cop said. “Maybe she'd like me bet- ter.” He crossed the room. My knees were wobbling. Lt. Mulroney, that’s what his badge tead. He saw me looking at it and slapped me hard across the face. His hand clamped on my face like a vise. “Suck my cock,” he said quietly. There wasn't a sound in the room. I didn’t move. No one said anything. I almost got the feeling it could stay that way, all action frozen, but it didn’t, Mulroney was fin- gering his crotch. “Suck my cock, bulldagger.” Someone hit the side of my knee with anightstick. My knees buckled more from fear than pain. Mulroney grabbed me by the collar and dragged me several feet away to a steel toilet. There was a piece of un- flushed shit floating in the water. “Either eat me or eat my shit, bulldagger. It’s up to you.” I was too frightened to think or move. : Theld my breath the first time he shoved my head in the toilet, The second time he held me under so long I sucked in water and felt the hard shape of the shit against my tongue. When Mulroney pulled my head back out of the toilet I spewed vomit all over him. I gagged and retched over and over again. “Aw shit, fuck, get her out of here,” the cops yelled to each other as I lay heaving, “No,” Mulroney said, “handcuff her over there, on top of the desk.” They lifted me and threw me on my back across the desk and handcuffed my hands ‘over my head. sone cop pulled off my trousers I tried to calm the spasms in my stomach so I wouldn’t choke to death on my own vomit. “Aw, ain't that cute, BVD’s,” one cop called out to another, “Fuckin’ pervert.” Tlooked at the light on the ceiling, allarge yellow bulb burning behind a metal mesh. ‘The light reminded me of the endless stream of television westerns I saw after we moved up north. Whenever anyone was lost in the desert the only image shown was a glaring sun—all the beauty of the desert reduced to that one impression. Staring at that jail light bulb rescued me from watching my own degradation: I just went away. I found myself standing in the desert. The sky was streaked with color. Every shift of light cast a different hue across the wilderness: salmon, rose, lavender. The scent of sage was overpowering. Even before I saw the golden eagle gliding in the updraftSTONE BUTCH BLUES 63 above me, I heard it scream, as clearly as if it had come from my own throat. Tlonged to soar in flight with the eagle, but I felt rooted to the earth. The mountains rose to meet me. I walked toward them, seeking sanctuary, but something held me back. “Fuck it,” Mulroney spat. “Turn her over, her cunt’s too fuckin’ loose.” “Jeez Lieutenant, how come these fuckin’ bulldaggers don’t fuck men and they got such big cunts?” “Ask your wife,” Mulroney said. The other cops laughed. I panicked. I tried to return to the desert but I couldn’t find that floating opening between the dimensions I'd passed through before. An explosion of pain in my body catapulted me back. I was standing on the desert floor again, but this time the sands had cooled. The sky was overcast, threatening to storm. The air pressure was unbearable. It was hard to breathe. From a distance I heard the eagle scream again. The sky was growing as dark as the mountains. Wind blew through my hair. I closed my eyes and turned my face up to the desert sky. And then, finally, it teleased—the welcome relief of warm rain down my cheeks.CHAPTER he ring was gone. The only tangible proof it had ever existed were the blood blisters on my ring finger; the cops must have pried it off while my hands were cuffed and swollen. The ring was gone. I sat in my apartment and stared out the window. I couldn't tell how long I'd been awake. Justine and Peaches had bailed me out. Trecalled they told me there were no charges filed against any of us. Justine wanted to come upstairs with me when I got home, but Twas adamant: I wanted to be alone. The first thing I did was take a bath. I put my head back and tried to luxuriate in the tub, Then I noticed the water turning deeper shades of pink and a current of red water between my legs. I instantly recalled the feel of the hard piece of shit against my tongue and I climbed out of the bathtub in a panic, just making it to the toilet in time. Now I was tranquil. I didn’t feel much of anything at all. But even through this blessed serenity I grieved for the ring that would have protected me, or at least offered me its wisdom. The ring was gone. There was nothing to hope for now. The ring was ne, a Betty knocked on the door and let herself in. She noticed the plate of fried chicken she'd brought me last night was untouched. The chicken looked like human limbs, and 656 I couldn't bring myself to bite into flesh. The thought had sent me flying into the bath- room, retching. “J brought you some apple pie,” Betty said. She had bright yellow calico in her hands, “I thought I'd make some curtains for this window, if that's OK?” I'd lived without curtains since I'd moved in more than six months ago. I nodded. Betty began to sew. From time to time she glanced up at me. I knew she had probably been sewing in my room for several hours when she stood to iron the curtains, but it seemed like seconds. ‘The curtains were real pretty, but my face wouldn't move, even to smile. Betty came over and sat down near me. “You should eat something,” she said. I looked up to ac- knowledge I'd heard her. She moved toward the front door to leave and then stopped. “T know,” she said. “You don't think anyone knows. ‘You can’t believe anyone would understand, But I do know.” I shook my head slowly—she didn’t know. Betty knelt down in front of me. As we made eye contact I felt a sudden jolt of emo- tional electricity. I saw everything I was feeling in Betty’s eyes, as though I were look- ing at my own reflection. [looked away inhorror, Betty nodded and squeezed my knee. “T do know,” she said, getting up to leave. “I do understand.” Ididn’t move from the couch. Darkness settled over the room. There was another knock at the door. I wished everyone would go away and leave me alone. Peaches came in, dressed to kill. “My date was a dud,” she said, and went into the kitchen. A moment later she brought out two pints of vanilla ice cream with a spoon sticking out of each. She sat down next to me on the couch and offered me one. The ice cream tasted so sweet and cool going down my throat it made my eyes sting with tears. Peaches stroked my hair. I was thinking about how the world looks when it’s bu- ried in deep snow drifts—every twig and telephone line outlined with inches of snow, sparkling in the moonlight. Silent and still. Muffled. That's how the world seemed to me now. I wished I could tell Peaches or Betty how peaceful I felt, but I couldn't speak. “You're afraid to sleep, aren’t you child?” Peaches’ voice was so soft. “But Miss Peaches is here with you now. You gonna sleep safe in her arms tonight. I won't let any- thing hurt you.” She disappeared into the bedroom. A moment later she came out and led me to my bed. She'd changed the sheets; they were fresh and clean. She put me down like a child and lay next to me. I could taste vomit rise in my throat, but she gently pulled me to her body. My lips found the curve of her breast. ““That’s hormones made them swell up like that, but they're mine now.” She kissed my hair. She sang a song in a voice so satiny smooth that I trusted the sound and followed it right into sleep. Edwin brought over my blue suit coat. She found the matching trousers in a pile by my bathroom doer and took them both to the dry cleaners for me. When I didn’t show up at the Malibou the next Friday, Edand Georgetta and Peaches came by and picked me up. Cookie threw me a towel when I arrived and told me toSTONE BUTCH BLUES 67 start waiting on tables. I moved in numbness for several weeks, unable to feel the sen- sation of temperature, hot or cold. The world seemed distant. One night at work a guy beckoned me over to his table and told me to take the french fries back to the kitchen. He said they were cold. I took them to Cookie, but she said she was too busy. I brought the french fries back to the guy and apologized. He picked upa glass of water and poured its contents all over the french fries. “They're cold,” he said. He opened a traveling case, pulled out a huge snake, and coiled it around his neck. ‘And then he bit off a chunk of the water glass and chewed it. “The french fries are cold,” he repeated. “Cookie,” I yelled as I skidded into the kitchen. “Give me some hot french fries, and I mean now!” She started to protest. “Now, goddamn it. I want them now!” The guy left me a great tip. “You didn’t know who that guy was?” Booker doubled over laughing. Everyone chuckled. “That was Razor Man. He performs at a club near here.” Ithrew down my towel. “This job is fucked up,” I protested, but even I started to smile. “What's so funny?” Toni said behind me. I turned around to explain, but her face was all twisted up in anger. “I said, what’s so goddamn funny?” she demanded. One of the butches tried to pull her back, “Come on Toni, blow it off.” She yanked free and staggered toward me. “You think you're funny?” “What the hell, Toni,” I said, flustered. A group of pros came in the door and I started to walk over to say hello, but Toni spun me around, “You think I don’t know what's going on with you and my femme?” Everyone sucked in their breath. I felt stunned. “Toni, what the hell are you talk- ing about?” “You think I don’t know, don’t you?” Betty started toward Toni, but Angie, one of the pros who had just walked in, held her back. “Step outside you chickenshit bastard.” Toni spat on the floor. I sure as hell didn’t want to fight Toni, so I went outside to talk to her. Everyone followed me out to listen. “Toni,” I appealed to her. “Shut up and fight, you fuckin’ bastard. Come on, you chickenshit son-of-a-bitch.” “Look, Toni,” I said, “if you want to hit me, you go ahead. If itll make you feel better, I won't stop you. But why would I want to hit you? You helped me out when I needed it, You know damn well I'd never disrespect you or Betty.” 7 I caught Betty's eye and she looked at me apologetically. “Don’t you be looking at my femme, you motherfucker!” Toni sputtered. “Toni, I’m telling you I wouldn't do anything, ever, to disrespect you.” “Get out of my fucking house,” she yelled at me. She was reeling. “Get out!” Angie was behind me. “C’mon, baby.” She tugged on my arm. “It’s only gonna68 get worse out here. C’mon,” she said, pulling me back into the bar. Grant and Edwin offered to help me pack up my stuff and bring it back. “Hell,” Itold them, “I still only need a couple of pillowcases for all my stuff. I can bring it back on the bike.” When I got back to the club with my things, I found a stool at the end of the bar and nursed a beer. Angie sat down next to me. “You got a place to stay tonight?” She stubbed out her cigarette. I shook my head. “Look,” she patted my arm. “I’m tired, I want to go home and to bed—to sleep. You need a place to sack out for the night, fine. Just don’t get any funny ideas.” “You been turning tricks all night?” I asked her. Angie eyed me distrustfully. “Yeah.” “Then why on earth would I think you were dying for someone to take you home and fuck you?” ‘Angie tossed back her whiskey and laughed. “C'mon, baby, I'll buy you break- fast for that one.” “Tell me the truth,” Angie said as she buttered her toast. “No bullshit. How come you didn’t fight her? Was it really cause she’s your friend or were you scared?” 7 I shook my head. “She's not like my best friend or anything, but she helped me out a lot. I don’t want to hit her, that’s all. She was drunk.” Angie smirked at me. “So were you fuckin’ around with Betty?” I shook my head. “I don't play that game.” She watched my face as she poked her eggs with a fork. “How old are you, baby?” “How old were you when you were my age?” I felt annoyed. She leaned back against the booth. “I guess the streets made us old before our time, huh, kid?” “’'m not a kid.” My voice sounded hard. “I’m sorry,” she sounded like she meant it. “You're right, you aren’t a kid.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. She laughed. “Am I keeping you up?” Angie glanced over at an older pro who was paying her check at the register. “You know.” she told me, “when I was a little girl I remember being in a restaurant with my mother and stepfather and I saw a woman who looked something like her.” “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I said. Angie looked at me and cocked her head. “You like tough women, don’t you, butch?” I smiled and stabbed my eggs with my fork. “I remember,” Angie continued, “my stepfather said, ‘Dirty, filthy whore, right out loud as the woman paid her bill. Everyone in the restaurant heard him say it. But that woman just paid her bill and took a toothpick and walked out real slow, like she never heard him at all. That’s gonna be me when I grow up,” I thought. I nodded. “That's like the time I was about fourteen and I saw this he-she.” Angie rested her chin on the heel of her hand as she listened. “I'd forgotten about this. MySTONE BUTCH BLUES 69 parents dragged me along while they shopped. You know how crowded and loud the stores are before Christmas? All of a sudden, everything got real quiet. The cash registers stopped ringing and nobody moved. Everybody was staring at the jewelry department. There's this couple—a he-she and a femme. Alll they were doing was looking at rings, you know?” Angie sat back and exhaled slowly. “Everyone was glaring at them. The pressure just popped those two women out the door like corks. I wanted to run out af- ter them and beg them to take me with them. And all the while I was thinking, Oh shit, that’s gonna be me.” Angie shook her head. “It’s tough when you see it coming, ain’t it?” “Yeah,” I said, “it’s like driving on a single-lane highway and seeing an eighteen- wheeler heading right for you.” She winced. “C’mon,” she told me, “I got to get some sleep.” Angie’s apartment was more like a home than mine had been. “T like that kind of material you got for curtains in the kitchen.” I asked her, “What do you call that?” “Muslin,” she said. She got two bottles out of the refrigerator. “Listen, if you need aplace, this apartment might be available—very, very soon, if you know what I mean.” I cocked my head. “Like tomorrow?” She laughed. “Maybe sooner, who knows?” Idrank my beer and lit a cigarette. I threw the pack on the kitchen table. Angie took one and sat down across from me. “I’m gonna be in a little trouble soon, you know?” I nodded. “So, if you want this place, it’s cheap.” “You know,” I told her, “I don’t even know how to pay bills, or how any of that works. I never lived any place except for Toni and Betty's.” Angie rested her hand on my arm. “I’m gonna give you a piece of advice—you don't have to take it. Get yourself a factory job so you don’t end up spending your whole life in the bars. Life in the Tenderloin’s like lickin’ a razor blade, you know what I mean? T'm not saying the plants are heaven, or anything, but maybe you can get into a plant with the other butches, pay your bills, settle down with a girl.” I shrugged. “I know I got some growing up to do.” Angie smiled and shook her head. “No, baby. I’m talking about staying young. Idon't want you to have to grow up too fast. I got old the night I first got busted—I was thirteen. The cop kept yelling at me to give him a blow job and he beat the shit out of me when I didn’t. I just didn’t know what he meant by a blow job. It wasn't like I'd never had to do it before.” I got up and walked over to the sink. I felt like I was going to throw up. Angie got up and put her hands on my shoulders, “I'm sorry, that was a stupid story to tell any- body.” Icouldn’t turn around and face her. “C’mon, baby, come sit down,” she tugged onme gently. “You're OK,” she said as she turned me around. “Are you OK?” I smiled ather, but it wasn’t convincing. She ran her fingers through my hair. “You're not OK, are you?” Iwas so relieved she said it out loud that I started to cry. She held me against her0 shoulder and rocked me. She pushed me back against the sink and looked at my face, “You want to talk?” I shook my head. “OK,” she whispered, “it’s OK. It’s just, some- times it’s good to talk about stuff.” She held my chin in her hand. I tried to pull my face away, but she wouldn't let me. “You know.” she said, “maybe it’s alittle bit easier for femmes to talk to each other about this stuff than it is for butches, what do you think?” I shrugged my shoulders. I felt trapped and sick. “Who hurt you, baby? The cops?” She watched my face. “Who else?” she con- cluded out loud. “Aw, baby, you're already old, too,” she crooned as she held me tightly against her. I buried my face in the safety of her neck. “C’mere baby, sit down.” She pulled a kitchen chair up next to me. “Tm OK,” I said. “Ub-uh. You're not talking to the butches now. Do you open up to your girlfriend?” “[ don’t have a girlfriend,” I reluctantly admitted. Angie looked surprised, which made me feel flattered. Then she smiled coyly. “Have you ever opened up to a girlfriend?” felt like a pinned down butterfly. “I...” She shook her head and looked me in the eye. “You never had a girlfriend?” I looked down at my lap in embarrassment. “How did a good-looking young butch like you ever escape all those hungry femmes out there?” she teased me, lifting my chin. “How many times you been busted, baby?” I shrugged. “A couple.” She nodded, “It gets harder when you know what’s coming, doesn't it?” I let her see into my eyes. “Baby,” she sat on my lap. She pulled my face against her breasts. “Baby, I’m sorry they hurt you. But more than anything, I’m sorry you got no place to go with it. Bring it to me now. It’s OK.” She held me inside her warmth. Without words I told her everything I felt. Without saying anything she let me know she un- derstood. : Then my lips brushed against her breast and a sound escaped her throat. We looked at each other, startled. She had a frightened, frozen look on her face, like a deer caught in headlights. That’s when I realized sex is very powerful. Angie took a handful of my hair in her fist and pulled my head back slowly. She brought her mouth close to mine, until I could feel the warmth of her breath. A grunt- ing sound came from my throat. Angie smiled. She pulled my head back further and ran her fingernails lightly down my throat. Tached from my waist to my knees. She kissed me with her whole mouth. I used to think it was disgusting that adults licked each other’s tongues. I figured it might not even ‘be true, But what Angie's tongue was doing to mine set my whole body on fire. I strained to take more of her tongue with mine. Suddenly she pulled my head back again and looked at me with a strange, wild look on her face. I felt scared, and she must have realized it because she smiled and pulled me closer. My hands kneaded her waist and my lips found her hardened nipple.STONE BUTCH BLUES 71 ‘Without a word she stood up and took me by the hand. In her bedroom she kissed me, pushed me away, looked at me, and kissed me again. Her hand slid down my waist to my crotch and I pulled away. “You're not pack- ing?” she asked. I didn’t know what that meant. “It’s OK,” she said, going to her dresser drawer. She muttered to herself, “If I don’t have a harness in here, I’m going to kill myself.” Trealized she was looking for a dildo. I couldn't remember anything Al had taught me—not a word. All J remembered was Jacqueline’s warning: You could make a woman feel real good with it or you could make her remember all the ways she's ever been hurt. “What's the matter, baby?” Angie asked. We both looked down at the dildo and the hamess in her hands. Angie’s face passed through a series of expressions I couldn't, read. “It's OK,” she said as I started to tum away. “C’mere, baby,” she coaxed me. Angie turned me around, “I'll show you how.” Those were the most comforting words I ever heard. ‘She went over to the radio and turned the dial until she heard Nat King Cole’s silky voice singing “Unforgettable.” She came into my arms. “Dance with me, baby. You know how to make me feel good. Feel how I’m following you?” she whispered in my ear. “‘That’s what I want you to do for me when we fuck. I want you to slow dance with me. I want you to follow me like I’m following you. C’mere.” She tossed the dildo aside, lay down on the mattress, and pulled me on top of her. “Listen to the music, Feel how I'm moving? Move with me,” she said. I did. She taught mea new dance. When that song ended another slow song came on, the one from the movie with Humphrey Bogart—Casablanca. When it got to the part where the man sang, Woman needs man and man must have his mate, we laughed together. Angie rolled me over and began unbuttoning my shirt, leaving my T-shirt on. She got up on her knees and slowly fingered the button on my pants. She slid my pants off but left on my BVD’s. I struggled to slip on the harness and the dildo. Angie pushed me back on the pillow and took the rubber cock in both her hands. The way she touched itmesmerized me. “Feel how I'm touching you?” she whispered with a smile. She ran her nails down the sides of my T-shirt and up my thighs. Her mouth was very near my cock. “If you're going to fuck me with this,” she said, stroking it, “then I want you tofeel it. This is an act of sweet imagination.” She took the head of the cock in her lips and began to move her mouth up and down the length of it. When she finally spoke, Now was all she said. Angie rolled over on her back as I fumbled with her clothing. I touched her with an adolescent's lack of grace. At first I thought she was being very patient about it. Then I wondered if my clumsiness allowed her to be more excited with me than she could have been if I was experienced. When I was fearful or unsure, she became more pres- ent in our lovemaking, encouraging me. When I got excited like a colt, she guided me back under control. No amount of advice I'd ever received from the older butches, however, preparedn me for the moment when I knelt between Angie’s legs and had no idea of what to do. “Wait,” she said, pressing her fingertips against my thighs, “let me.” She gently guided the cock inside of herself. ““Wait,” she repeated, “don’t push. Be gentle. Let me get used to you inside of me before you move.” I carefully lay on top of Angie. After a moment her body relaxed against me. “Yes,” Angie said as I moved with her, following her lead. I found if tried to think about what I was doing, I lost the rhythm of her body. So I stopped thinking. “Yes.” She grew more. excited. Angie became wilder in my arms. It scared me, I didn’t know what was hap- pening. Suddenly she started to cry out and yanked my hair. I stopped moving. There was a long pause. Her body slumped beneath me. One of her arms flopped over her head against the pillow in annoyance. “Why did you stop?” she asked quietly. “T thought I was hurting you.” “Hurting me?” Her voice rose a bit. “Haven't you ever?” She stopped mid-sentence. “Sweetheart,” she said to me, searching my face for the truth, “have you ever been with a woman before?” So much blood pumped into my face that the room spun around. I turned away from her, but I was still inside of her. “Wait,” she said putting her hands firmly on my ass. “Pull out of me gently, careful, ah, OK.” Angie got up slowly and brought back a pack of cigarettes, matches, an ashtray, and a bottle of whiskey. “I’m sorry,” she said. I turned away from her. “Listen to me, Jess. I'm sorry. I didn’t know you’d never been with a woman before. The first time should be special. It’s sort of a big responsibility, you know? C’mere, baby,” she pulled me against her. I lay quietly in her arms. Billie Holiday was singing on the radio. We both felt how close my mouth was to her breast at the same moment, and something flared between us. “Roll over,” she told me. I did. “Relax. I won't hurt you.” She straddled my waist and began to massage my shoulders through my T-shirt. I could feel the strength of the muscles in her thighs. I rolled over and she stayed over me. I reached up for her face and pulled her down to kiss me. She gave me another chance. I did better that time. ‘We held each other for a long time without speaking. Then she laughed. “That,” she said, “was great. That was really wonderful.” It was so nice of her to say that. She guided me out of her slowly, then kissed me all over my face and made me laugh. “You're really very sweet,” she told me, “you know that?” 7 7 I blushed, which made her laugh and kiss me all over my flushed face again. “You really are pretty,” I told her. She made a face and leaned over for a cigarette, I shook my head. “How come you make your living from your looks and you don’t know how beautiful you are?” “That's why,” she laughed bitterly. “Whatever it is they find attractive, you figure it must be pretty ugly. You know?” I didn’t, but I nodded. “Will you respect me in the morning?” she demanded.STONE BUTCH BLUES. 73 “Will you marry me?” I asked her. We both laughed and hugged each other, but the sad thing is, I think we were each kind of serious. Angie looked at me long and hard. “What?” I was worried. “What?” She ran her hands through my hair. “I just wish I could make you feel that good. You're stone already, aren't you?” I dropped my eyes. She lifted my chin up and looked me in the eyes. “Don’t be ashamed of being stone with a pro, honey. We're ina stone profession. It’s just that you don’t have to get stuck in being stone, either. It's OK if you find a femme you can trust in bed and you want to say that you need something, or you want to be touched. Do you know what I mean?” I shrugged. She kept talking. “I remember when I was a little kid, I saw a bunch of the older kids in a circle in the playground. I went over to see what they were do- ing.” I got up on one elbow to listen. “There was this big beetle. The kids were poking itwith a stick. The bug just kind of curled up to protect itself.” She snorted, “God knows Teen poked with enough sticks.” I kissed her on the forehead. “God,” she said, “by the time we're old enough to have sex, we're already too ashamed to be touched. Ain't that a crime?” I shrugged. “Will you trust me a little?” she asked. I tensed. “I won’t touch you any place you've been hurt, I promise. Turn over, baby,’ she whispered. She lifted the back of my T-shirt. “God, your back looks like raw hamburger. Did Ido that to you?” I laughed. “God, it’s bleeding a little. Did I hurt you?” I shook my head. “What a butch,” she laughed. Angie’s hands rubbed all the soreness out of my shoulders and lower back. She slid her nails down my back and sides, and soon her mouth followed the same trail. I clenched the pillowcase in my fists. I knew it pleased her that I writhed under her touch. As her hand ran up my thigh, I froze. “I’m sorry, baby, it’s OK,” she reassured me. I rolled over and she came into my arms. “Usually it’s me that reacts like that,” she said. “It’s strange. It’s like being on the other side of the looking glass, you know?” I didn’t, but I could feel myself drift irresistibly toward sleep. “Sleep now, baby,” Angie cooed in my ear. “You're safe here.” “Angie,” I asked her as I slipped into sleep, “will you be here when I wake up?” “Sleep now, baby,” she answered.CHAPTER twas time to find a factory job. The butches urged me to try to get into steel or auto. Of course I already knew that. I wasn’t a damn fool. The strength of the unions in those heavy industries had won liveable wages and decent benefits. But Edwin said there was more to it than that. The trade unions safeguarded job security. She told me that unlike a nonunion shop if she had a run-in with a jerk on the plant floor, it didn’t signal her last day on the job. You couldn't be fired just because some foreman didn’t like your face. With union protection, all the butches agreed, a he-she could carve out a niche, and begin earning valuable seniority, In the meantime, while I was waiting for an opening, I had to work through the temporary labor agencies at minimum wage. In early autumn the agency sent me to aone-day job on the loading docks of a frozen food plant. My heart leaped when I saw Grant walking into the factory ahead of me. I caught up to her and shook her hand. Unloading trucks on the docks was male turf. It meant a lot to have another butch watch your back. Grant dug her gloved hands deep inside the pockets of her blue Navy coat. “Brrr,” she shivered. “I’m freezin’ my ass off out here, let’s get inside.” Then she sauntered very slowly toward the loading docks. She never hurried. She was so cool. One of the truckers shouted, “He-shes at high noon!” Several guys peered out from 56 inside the plant and shook their heads in disgust. It was going to be a long shift. I was glad we walked slowly, like we owned the god damn parking lot. We climbed up on the dock. The foreman came out to look us over. Grant took off her glove and extended her hand. At first the foreman looked like he wasn't going to shake her hand, but he did. What little respect Grant got, she earned. The afternoon was waning. The sun dipped low in the winter sky. A brutal wind blew off the frozen lake. The huge semi we were unloading served to block the wind, but not the cold. I shivered. We were told we would unload two of these long, long trucks during the shift. We both nodded. Personally, I had my doubts. ‘We worked in silence with two guys. Neither of the men spoke a word to us. They hardly spoke to each other. When Grant and had to get around the men, we all dropped our eyes. It was harder to bear than a storm of insults. The cartons of frozen food weren’t as heavy as I thought, not for the first three or four hours. After that, they felt like they were filled with cold steel. My muscles ached and burned, I felt elated as the truck load emptied. I worked faster. Grant slowed me down with a well-intentioned glare. I had forgotten another semi was coming until I saw it parked, waiting in the lot. We had a ten-minute breather as one truck pulled away and the other backed in. Then we began unloading the endless rows of cartons in its trailer. Sweat ran in rivulets between my breasts. But my head was frozen and my ears burned like fire. That’s when I noticed with horror that both of the men we were working with were missing pieces of their ears. Frostbite. In some plants the men were missing a finger down to the second joint, or a thumb. Out here on the docks, which butt up against the frozen lake, the men gave up little ex- posed pieces of their bodies. It frightened me. I wondered what I would be forced to sacrifice in order to survive. ee I shuddered. Grant gave mea slight push that made me focus again on the task athand. She looked me up and down to make sure | was alright. She wouldn't ask out loud. In order to be safe on men’s terrain it was necessary to work with dignity, as though the job was effortless. I also didn't want Grant to see me cold and scared and tired. She seemed fine, She wasn’t even breathing hard. When the shift finally ended we got the night foreman to sign our timecards and hightailed it out to the parking lot. We sat in Grant’s car smoking cigarettes in silence. My arms trembled with exhaustion. It was the first real break we'd had in eight hours. Our smoky breath formed ice crystals on the windshield. Grant revved up the engine and turned the radio on low as we waited for the car to warm up. “Wasn't too bad,” I said casually, “huh?” “Are you kidding?” she asked me incredulously. “Halfway through I thought I'd die.” I registered shock. “For real? You made it look so easy!” She laughed. “You must be joking. The only thing that got me through was it lookedSTONE BUTCH BLUES. 7 like it wasn’t bothering you much. I figured I had to show you an old butch like me could still keep up with a young punk like you!”” For a moment | felt uneasy. If she relied on me, she had no idea what a thin reed she leaned on. Then I flushed with gratitude as I realized how she was holding me up, even at this moment. “You pulled it off, kid,” she punched my shoulder lightly. “Je- sus,” she added, as a look of fear crossed her face. “Did you see the ears on those guys?” We finished our cigarettes in silence, lost in similar thoughts. It was always hard the first day I started working at a new factory; it wasn’t easy for anyone. It took a while for a new person to be accepted into the community of a plant. Before coworkers invested their caring in you they wanted to know if you were stay- ing. Many workers never came back after the first day, or couldn't make quota. Others made it almost to the eve of the ninety days required to join the union, only to be laid off. Iplanned to stay at this bindery, if I could. I easily made quota the first day, feed- ing machines and packing skids. By day two I slowed down. If quota was made too ef- fortlessly, the foreman would raise it. I was being watched and I knew it. The first day I wore sunglasses, defensively, all day long. I didn’t take off my denim jacket and kept it buttoned up over my black T-shirt. This was a small sweatshop with a company union and I was the only he-she in the plant. If this were a big plant, I would be one of many he-shes, so many we would have our own baseball or bowling teams within the factory complex. There I would probably have bound my breasts at work, worn a white T-shirt with no jacket, and found my place among our own smaller societal structure within the life of the plant. But despite the fact that I hadn't yet been initiated into this society, kindnesses were not withheld. At lunch I bought a bottle of pop from the machine near the time clock and sat down on a skid to eat my baloney sandwich. Muriel, one of the older Native women who worked near me on the line, offered me half her apple. I stood and thanked her. I ate it appreciatively. Each morning for the next week Muriel offered me coffee from her thermos. Everyone watched us, weighing everything they could observe. Those moments before the whistle blew in the morning were precious because they were ours, Only the kerchunk of the time clock stole the last one from us. We all dragged ourselves out of bed a little earlier in the mornings to be at the plant a quarter hour be- fore we had to punch in. We drank coffee and ate rolls, talked and laughed. We talked all day long too. The owners only rented our hands, not our brains. But even talking had to be negotiated when it was on the bosses’ time. If we seemed to be having too much fun, laughing and enjoying ourselves too much, the foreman would come up behind us and hit the solid wooden worktables with a lead pipe while he growled, “Get to work.” Then we'd all look at our hands as we worked and press our lips together in silent anger. J think the foreman sometimes got nervous after he'd done that, sensing the murderous glances he received moments after he turned his back. But8 he was assigned to keep us under control. That required keeping us divided. ‘We came from many different nationalities and backgrounds. About half the women on the line were from the Six Nations. Most were Mohawk or Seneca. What we shared in common was that we worked cooperatively, day in and day out. So we remembered to ask about each other’s back or foot pains, family crises. We shared small bits of our culture, favorite foods, or revealed an embarrassing moment. It was just this potential for solidarity the foreman was always looking to sabotage. It was done in little ways, all the time: a whispered lie, a cruel suggestion, a vulgar joke. But it was hard to split us up. The conveyor belt held us together. Within weeks I was welcomed into the circle, teased, pelted with questions. My differences were taken into account, my sameness sought out. We worked together, we talked, we listened. And then there were songs. When the whistle first blew in the mornings there was ashared physical letdown among all the women and men who worked between its im- perative commands. We lumbered to our feet, stood silently in line to punch in, and took our places on the assembly line—next to each other, facing each other. We worked the first few moments in heavy silence. Then the weight was lifted by the voice of one of the Native women. They were social songs, happy songs that made you feel real good to hear them, even if you had no idea what the words meant. listened to the songs, trying to hear the boundaries of each word, the patterns and repetitions. Sometimes one of the women would explain to us later what the song meant, or for which occasion or time of year it was sung. There was one song I loved the best. I found myself humming it after I punched out in the afternoons. One day, without thinking, I sang along. The women pretended not to notice, but they smiled at each other with their eyes, and sang a little louder to allow me to raise my own voice a bit. After that I started looking forward to the songs in the morning. Some of the other non-Native women learned songs, too. It felt good to sing together. One wintry Friday night, before we punched out, Muriel invited me to go to an indoor pow-wow on Sunday. I said yes, of course. I felt honored. ‘There were a few other Black and white workers at the social—friendships too valu- able to explore solely on company time. I began to go regularly and got strung out on fry bread and corn soup. ; Once or twice I was cajoled to get up and join a round dance. I must say that al- though the pounding of the drum resounded in my heart, it never got as far down as. my feet. I felt awkward dancing and self-conscious about being so butch. Of course, Muriel’s daughter Yvonne being there made me self-conscious too. | had a fierce crush on Yvonne. She worked in the front office of the same factory. Every- ‘one knew she was the girlfriend of a local organized crime boss. That didn’t stop us from knowing where each other was in the room during those socials. I think all the women noticed right away.